THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

RIVERSIDE 


/H. 


THE    LAND   OF    PARDONS 


\ 


A    liklClOX    VILLACJK 


THE 

LAND   OF    PARDONS 

BY 

ANATOLE    LE    BRAZ 


TRANSLATED   BY 

FRANCES  M.  GOSTLING 


WITH    12    ILLUSTRATIONS   IN    COLOUR 

BY   T.   C.   GOTCH 

AND   40  OTHER    ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW   YORK 
THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

1906 

A II  rights  reserved 


/ 1 ' 
u  c. 


py^r 


TO 
THE   REVERED   MEMORY 

OF 

MY    MOTHER 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE xiii 

AUTHOR'S   INTRODUCTION xvii 

THE   PARDON    OF   THE   POOR i 

THE   PARDON    OF   THE   SINGERS      ....  58 

THE   PARDON    OF   FIRE 131 

THE   PARDON    OF   THE    MOUNTAIN         .        .        .198 

THE   PARDON    OF   THE   SEA 249 

INDEX 287 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN   COLOUR 
BY   T,    C.    GOTCH 


TO   FACE   PAGB 

A  BRETON  VILLAGE Frontispiece 


monik's  pilgrimage 


"the  old,  old  churches  of  the  past,  that  are  full   of 

SUCH  marvels  as  we  shall  never  see  again  "        .         .22 

"  peasants  from  the  outskirts  of  quimper  "        .         .         .76 

the  vigil  of  song  in  the  churchyard         ,         ,         .         .     113 

"in  eOssa  lived  a  little  maid,  pretty   and   good   as   an 

angel"      .         .         .         .         .         .         ,         .         .         .124 

"  ANCIENT  chapels,  OFFERING  DELIGHTFUL  SHADE,  DAMP  AND 
COOL  .  .  .  THE  moss  OF  AGES  CREEPING  ALONG  THEIR 
GREEN   walls" 17G 

"an   inn,   ADORNED  WITH  THE   NAME  OF  AN   HOTEL"  .  .       178 

"IT     WAS     THE      EVENING      HOUR,     SO      ESPECIALLY     SWEET      IN 

BRITTANY" 203 

"LOOKING  ROUND,  SHE  ALMOST  FAINTED  WITH  SURPRISE  AT 
FINDING  HERSELF  FACE  TO  FACE  WITH  HER  HUSBAND,  WHOM 
SHE  HAD   BURIED  THE  YEAR   BEFORE  "  .  .  .  .      240 

"PUTTING   HER   FINGERS  ON   HER   LIPS,  SHE   MADE   A  SIGN   TO   ME 

NOT  TO  SPEAK  "...  ....      252 

"ON   THE   BEACH   THE   PILGRIMS  STOP  TO  TAKE  OFF  THEIR  SHOES. 

THE  TIDE   IS   ebbing" 276 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

IN    MONOTONE 
FROM   PHOTOGRAPHS   BY   F.    M.  AND   W.  A.   GOSTLING 

TO    FACE    PAGS 

LA   BRETAGNE xiii 

A    BRETON    PARDON xvii 

THE  TOMB   OF   SAINT   YVES    AT    TRfeGUIER    DECORATED     FOR     THE 

PARDON         ..........  I 

GUINDY,    THE   VILLAGE   OF   MABIK   r£M0ND             .            .            .            .  I9 

SAINT   YVES   OF   KERMARTIN 30 

THE   PROCESSION   OF   SAINT    YVES,    SHOWING    THE     SKULL    IN     ITS 

RELIQUARY 32 

THE   PROCESSION   OF   SAINT  YVES   (THE   GREAT   BANNER  OF    SAINT 

TUGDUVAL) 34 

THE  TOWER   OF   SAINT   MICHEL 4 1 

THE  OLD  TOMB  OF  SAINT  YVES  AT   MINIHY           ....  56 

THE   PROCESSION    OF   OUR   LADY   OF   RUMENGOL     ....  58 

THE   TOMB   OF   SAINT   GWENNOLE   IN   LANDEVENNEC   ABBEY  .            .  63 

THE   TOMB   OF   KING   CRALON   AT   LANOfeVENNEC   .            .            .            .  70 

THE  SOUTH  DOOR  OF  RUMENGOL  CHURCH 74 

OUR  LADY  OF  RUMENGOL 84 

CHILDREN   OF   VANNES           ........  lOO 

THE   PROCESSION   OF   SAINT   JEAN-DU-DOIGT              .            .            .            •  I3I 

THE   GATEWAY   OF   THE   OLD   ABBEY   AT   MORLAIX             .            .            .  I37 


Xll 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


BEGGARS   AT   THE   PARDON   OF   SAINT   JEAN-DU-DOIGT 
THE   BAY   OF   PRIMEL  ..... 

SAINT  JEAN-DU-DOIGT 

THE   FOUNTAIN   OF   SAINT   JEAN  .... 


TO    FACE   PAGE 
144 

162 


THE   GREAT   BANNER   OF   SAINT   JEAN    APPROACHING   THE   BONFIRE      1S9 


"  AN    TAN  !     AN    TAN  !  !  "      . 

THE   GRAND   TROM^NIE   OF    I905    AT    LOCRONAN 

LOCRONAN    FROM   THE   MOUNTAIN.      THE   BAY   OF   DOUARNENEZ  IN 
THE   DISTANCE     .... 

CARVINGS     ON     THE     PULPIT     CF     LOCRONAN     CHURCH,    SHOWING 
SCENES    FROM   THE   LII-E   OF   SAINT  JEAN 

THE  CROSS   OF  KEBfeN 

LOCRONAN    FROM   THE   OLD   ROAD 

THE   PILGRIM   WAY      .... 

LOCRONAN    FROM    THE  QUIMPER    ROAD 

THE  TOMB   OF   SAINT    RONAN 

THE   PLAC-AR-C'hORN 

THE   PROCESSION   OF   SAINTE   ANNE   DE   LA    PALUDE 

THE   ANCIENT   FIGURE   OF   SAINTE   ANNE    DE   LA   PALUDE 

CHATEAU    MOiiLLIEN,    THE   REPUTED    HOME   OF   SAINTE   ANNE 

THE   PARDON   OF   SAINTE   ANNE   DE   LA   PALUDE 

"  PAYEZ   LE   DROIT   DES    PAUVRES  !  "     . 

A   REFRESHMENT   BOOTH   AT   LA   PALUDE 

THE  SARDINE  BOATS  OF  DOUARNENEZ 

THE   FOUNT   OF   SAINT   ANNE   DE   LA   PALUDE 


193 
198 

207 

213 
219 
221 

230 
237 
239 
247 
249 
254 

255 
261 
263 
265 

274 

2S0 


LA   BRETAGNE 


TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE 

A  LITTLE  wayside  junction,  and  an  hour  to  wait  in 
the  pouring  rain  !  Not  a  pleasant  prospect,  you 
will  agree,  and  yet  .  .  .  well,  I  will  tell  you  about  it. 

We  were  on  our  way  to  the  Pardon  of  Saint  Yves, 
"The  Pardon  of  the  Poor,"  at  Tr^guier,  and  the  con- 
nection we  ought  to  have  made  at  Saint  Brieuc  had 
not  proved  satisfactory.  So  there  we  were  under  the 
dripping  roof,  with  nothing  to  do  for  the  next  sixty 
long  minutes,  but  turn  over  the  picture  post-cards  and 
papers  on  the  poor  little  stall. 

The  post-cards  were  the  worst  we  had  yet  come 
across  ;  so  were  the  papers,  which  is  saying  a  good  deal, 
and  we  were  just  turning  away,  when  my  eye  fell  on 
a  small  volume  on  the  second  shelf.  It  was  standing 
between  "One  Hundred  Ways  to  cook  Eggs"  and  a  very 
objectionable  novel  that  I  had  sampled  the  day  before. 
Why  I  took  it  down  I  cannot  say ;  it  was  in  the  usual 
paper  cover,  with  nothing  to  distinguish  it  from  the 
books  above  and  below.  Perhaps  its  title  caught  my 
eye,  "Au  Pays  des  Pardons;"  perhaps  a  desire  arose 
to  know  something  of  this  Brittany,  where  every  English- 
man has  travelled,  and  yet  of  which  he  knows  nothing 
but  the  name. 

Paying  the  woman  her  three  francs-fifty,  I  retired  to 


xiv  TRANSLATOR'S   PREFACE 

the  driest  seat  I  could  find,  and  began  to  cut  the  pages. 
...  I  always  think  that  one  gets  the  truest  idea  of  a 
book  in  those  glimpses  caught  as  the  knife  slits  up  the 
folds  of  the  paper.  These  first  impressions  resemble 
the  intuitive  likes  and  dislikes  that  we  feel  for  fresh 
acquaintances,  and  are  seldom  mistaken. 

I  liked  my  book  before  I  had  cut  through  the  in- 
troduction, I  loved  it  as  I  finished  the  Pardon  of  the 
Poor.  The  train  came  and  carried  me  off,  still  cutting 
and  dipping,  now  engrossed  by  King  Gralon's  pathetic 
death  scene,  now  smiling  at  the  quaint  picture  of  poor 
Ronan  and  that  virago  Keb^n.  .  .  .  Gradually  the  wet 
landscape  I  had  found  so  dull  began  to  take  a  new 
aspect.  Those  paths  through  the  soaking  meadows 
might  be  "  Sentiers "  through  which  the  Death-cart 
made  its  way  ;  that  old  woman,  was  she  Monik  with 
the  coin  in  her  shoe,  that  she  limped  along  so  painfully  ? 
and  see !  surely  there  goes  Mabik  R6mond,  the  chimney- 
sweep, "  The  blackbird  of  Saint  Yves !  "  I  searched  each 
field  of  wheat  for  one  of  those  tiny  sanctuaries  so  dear 
to  the  Breton  heart,  and  even  the  dismal,  darkening 
sky  was  more  endurable  when  I  noticed  how  truly  it 
was  called  "  Slate  Grey ! "  Many  times  had  I  run 
through  this  Brittany,  yet  now  I  was  seeing  it  for  the 
first  time.  Here  was  Armorica,  not  the  Brittany  of  the 
tourist  or  the  holiday-maker,  but  the  true  "  Country 
of  Pardons,"  to  be  seen  only  through  Breton  eyes. 

As  soon  as  I  found  myself  settled  in  the  big  old 
room  at  the  Lion  d'Or  at  Tr^guier,  I  set  to  work 
putting  the  beautiful  thing  into  English,  not  because 
then  I  had  any  idea  of  publishing  it,  but  for  the  mere 
delight  it  gave  me,  and  because  I  wanted  to  read  of 


TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE  xv 

those  sunsets,  those  "Awakenings  of  the  Ocean,"  in  my 
own  dear  tongue. 

Well,  it  is  done  at  last,  and  my  pleasant  task  is 
over.  It  has  been  indeed  a  labour  of  love,  this  close 
companionship  with  one  of  Brittany's  greatest  poets. 

May  you  find  as  much  pleasure  in  reading  "The 
Land  of  Pardons  "  as  I  have  taken  in  translating  Mons. 
Anatole  le  Braz'  "  Au  Pays  des  Pardons." 

Frances  M.  Gostling 


I  should  like  to  add  that  my  thanks  are  due  to  Mr. 
Fernand  Chrestien,  of  Balliol  College,  Oxford,  for  pro- 
viding four  of  the  photographs  to  the  last  Pardon,  "  The 
Pardon  of  the  Sea." 

Worthing,  1905. 


A    HKETON    PAR DUN 


AUTHOR'S    INTRODUCTION 

IT  is  scarcely  needful  to  tell  my  readers  that  this 
"Land  of  Pardons,"  through  which  I  propose  to 
lead  him,  is  Brittany.  "  La  Bretagne  Bretonnante,"  as 
it  is  sometimes  called,  or,  to  be  very  correct,  "  Armorica." 
Scarcely  less  superfluous  would  it  be,  I  imagine,  to 
define  the  word  "  Pardon."  Every  one  has  seen  a 
Pardon.  It  is  impossible  to  travel  for  a  week  in 
Brittany,  during  the  summer,  without  falling  into  the 
midst  of  one  of  these  local  festivals.  Seen  thus 
casually  by  the  passer-by,  these  gatherings  are  not 
very  interesting.  They  are  usually  held  near  some 
old  chapel,  scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  the 
cottages  around,  save  for  its  little  bell-tower.  Some- 
times it  nestles  in  the  hollow  of  a  wooded  ravine, 
sometimes  stands  on  the  summit  of  a  barren,  wind- 
swept moor,  and  there  you  will  find  a  crowd  of  people 
in  their  Sunday  clothes,  coming  and  going,  in  a  quiet, 
monotonous  fashion,  arms  hanging  or  crossed  on  their 
breasts,  without  a  gleam  of  enthusiasm  or  a  smile  of 
pleasure. 

Some,  seated  in  the  little  inn,  will  be  singing  and 
making  a  great  deal  of  noise,  but  evidently  actuated 
rather  by  conscientious  motives  than  lightness  of  heart. 


xviii  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

Beggars  are  swarming  everywhere,  sordid,  covered  with 
vermin  and  ulcers,  pitiable,  repulsive. 

In  the  graveyard,  humped  with  mossy  hillocks, 
true  Field  of  Death,  a  blind  man,  twisted  and  bent  as 
the  trunk  of  a  yew  tree,  shrieks  forth  a  mournful  dirge 
in  an  unknown  tongue. 

The  young  couples,  who  ought  to  be  chattering  of 
love,  wander  about  scarcely  exchanging  a  word,  only 
teasing  one  another  awkwardly  and  shyly. 

After  assisting  at  the  Pardon  of  La  Clarte,  near 
Perros,  a  friend  of  mine  said  to  me,  "  Do  you  know,  I 
decidedly  prefer  your  Bretons  when  they  are  not  amus- 
ing themselves  ;  they  are  so  much  more  lively."  But 
then  he  made  a  mistake  in  thinking  that  they  came  to 
the  Pardon  to  amuse  themselves  ! 

Le  Goffic  writes  with  regard  to  the  Pardons  : — 

"  They  have  remained  unchanged  for  over  two 
hundred  years,  and  nowhere  else  will  you  find  any- 
thing so  deliciously  obsolete.  They  have  no  resem- 
blance to  other  festivals.  They  are  not  pretexts 
for  feasting,  like  the  'Flemmis  Kermesses,'  neither 
are  they  revels  like  the  Paris  fairs.  No !  their 
attraction  comes  from  a  higher  source.  They  are 
the  last  vestiges  of  the  ancient  Feasts  of  the  Dead, 
and  there  is  little  laughter  at  them,  though  much 
prayer.  .  .  ." 

It  would  be  difficult  to  give  a  truer  idea  of  a 
Pardon.  Deep  religious  thoughtfulness  hovers  over  the 
assembly.  Every  one  looks  grave  and  reverent,  and 
the  greater  part  of  the  day  is  given  over  to  devo- 
tional exercises.  Long,  long  hours  are  passed  before 
the  homely  image  of  the  saint ;   on   their   knees   the 


AUTHOR^S   INTRODUCTION  xix 

worshippers  make  the  tour  of  the  granite  trough  that 
was  his  bed,  his  boat,  his  tomb  ;  they  go  to  drink  of  his 
fountain,  over  which  always  rises  a  little  building  of  the 
same  age  as  the  chapel.  The  water  of  these  same 
fountains  is  in  great  request,  and  is  supposed  to  have 
certain  health-giving  properties. 

Only  toward  evening,  when  Vespers  are  over,  do  the 
festivities  begin.  And  what  simple  pleasures  they  are  ; 
how  innocent,  how  primitive !  The  good  folk  flock 
together  in  the  shade  of  the  walnut  trees,  on  the  green 
sward,  beneath  the  spreading  elms.  And  there,  under 
the  eyes  of  the  girls,  seated  demurely  on  the  surround- 
ing slopes,  the  youths  challenge  one  another  to  wrestle, 
to  race,  to  jump  with  the  long  pole,  while  the  old  men 
look  on  and  applaud.  Last  of  all  the  dance  unfolds  its 
mystic  circles,  serious  yet  lively,  with  an  indescribable 
harmony  and  simplicity  in  its  rhythm,  that  reminds  one 
of  its  sacred  origin. 

The  home-goings  in  the  dusk  are  exquisite.  With  the 
freshness  of  twilight,  just  when  the  stars  begin  to  kindle 
in  the  slate-grey  sky,  the  crowd  separates  into  groups, 
and  every  one  begins  to  move  homeward.  How  soft  is 
the  peace  that  hovers  over  everything !  Young  men 
take  their  sweethearts  by  the  little  finger,  and  wander 
off  with  them  side  by  side.  He  has  grown  bold,  and 
she  no  longer  blushes,  for  the  mystery  of  the  twilight  is 
upon  them,  and  invites  to  confidence. 

As  they  near  a  farm,  all  break  into  song,  by  way  of 
announcing  their  coming,  joining  in  unison  in  some 
ballad,  bought  during  the  afternoon  from  the  stall. 
Other  groups  answer  back  from  afar,  and  soon  from 
all  quarters   an  alternating  chant  arises,  that  little  by 


XX  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

little  dies  away  into  the  great  silence  of  the  drowsy 
plains,  and  ceases  with  the  last  tolling  of  the  Angelus. 

Monsieur  Luzel  has  expressed  the  charm  of  these 
festivals  in  a  "Sone"  which  has  not  yet  been  pub- 
lished, and  of  which  I  here  give  a  verse  or  two  : — 


We  were  passing  through  fields,  and  flowering 
meadows,  and  woods  where  the  birds  sang  loudly. 

Before  me  at  a  little  distance  walked  J6nov6fa 
Rozel,  the  prettiest  maid  in  all  Brittany,  and  dressed, 
too — ah !  how  she  was  dressed !  She  looked  like  an 
angel. 

"  Good  day,  pretty  J^no.  Jesu  !  how  lovely  you  are 
looking !     Promise  me  the  first  dance,  La  Ronde." 

"Thank  you,  Alanik.  If  I  am  neatly  dressed,  it  is 
not  because  of  the  dance.  But  there !  we  all  know 
what  a  tease  you  are." 

"  Ah,  well,  at  all  events  I  am  ready  to  bet  a  hundred 
almonds  that  I  shall  soon  see  you  dancing  round  Jolory 
the  fiddler,  giving  your  hand  to  Gabik,  you  little  flower 
of  love !  But  never  mind,  Gabik  is  a  fine  lad,  a  very 
fine  lad.     Nay,  do  not  blush,  little  one."  .  .  . 

II 

The  procession  is  forming.  The  bells  ring  out  in 
such  volleys  that  the  tower  trembles,  and  the  beam 
creaks  with  the  strain  of  the  ringing.  See,  here  comes 
the  great  banner  from  out  the  porch.  Who  will  be 
carrying  it,  I  wonder? 

Ah !  Robert  le  Manac'h  it  is  !     He  is  the  strongest 


AUTHOR^S    INTRODUCTION  xxi 

of  all  the  young  men  in  the  country-side.  Now  he 
makes  the  banner  salute  three  times.  What  a  fine 
fellow  he  is !     More  than  one  girl  fixes  her  eyes  on  him. 

The  second  banner  is  carried  by  Gabik.  He  is 
looking  on  every  side  for  Jenovefa,  his  little  sweet- 
heart. .  .  .  Then  follow  a  crowd  of  girls,  pretty,  ravish- 
ingly  pretty,  dressed  all  in  white,  each  carrying  a 
candle.  .  .  . 

And  all  along  the  route  are  young  lads  and  pretty 
girls,  standing  on  the  slopes  among  the  flowers — flowers 
of  hawthorn,  flowers  of  broom.  Even  from  the  branches 
of  the  trees  children  hang  in  clusters.  .  .  . 

Out  in  the  open  the  rector  with  his  own  hand  sets 
light  to  the  pile  of  gorse. 

"  The  fire !     The  bonfire !  " 

And  every  one  shouts  together,  "  lou  !  lou  !  " 

And  now,  now  comes  the  fiddler's  turn. 

Ill 

Jolory,  mounted  on  his  hogshead,  summons  the 
young  men  to  the  "  Aubade."  How  the  hearts  of  the 
girls  flutter  at  the  call !  Look  !  What  eagerness  ! 
In  spite  of  the  dust,  how  they  leap ;  how  excited  they 
are! 

The  *'  Sonneur  "  can  do  no  more.  He  has  drunk  a 
good  deal,  and  his  breath  fails  him. 

"  Play,  '  Sonneur,'  play.  Drink  and  play.  Keep  on 
playing  all  the  time." 

IV 

But  where  is  J6nov^fa?  I  cannot  see  her  any- 
where.    And   Gabik,  too !     he   is   missing.     Ah !  this 


xxii  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

makes  me  very  anxious,  for  I  do  not  want  to  lose  my 
hundred  almonds.  .  .  . 

But  there  is  the  blind  singer!  .  .  .  Perhaps  I  shall 
find  them  listening  to  some  new  song  about  two  young 
love-sick  hearts.  .  .  .  No !  .  .  .  The  old  man  is  sing- 
ing a  terribly  sad  lament.  It  has  to  do  with  a  ship 
lost  at  sea  in  stormy  weather.  .  .  .  Let  us  look  further, 
further!  .  .  .  Here  is  louenn  Gorvel,  stretched  full 
length  among  the  spearwort,  as  tipsy  as  a  pig.  .  .  . 
Here  is  Job  Kerival.  .  .  . 

*'  Tell  me,  have  you  seen  Jenovdfa  Rozel  ? " 

"Indeed  I  have.  I  met  her  just  now  going  down 
there.  I  expect  she  was  on  her  way  to  the  chapel  to 
take  leave  of  the  saint." 

"  Was  she  alone  ?  " 

"  No,  no  ;  not  she.  Why,  her  sweetheart  Gabik 
was  with  her,  to  be  sure.  And  how  pleased  he  was ! 
How  pretty  she  looked  ! " 

.  .  .  They  are  no  longer  at  the  chapel.  .  .  .  Ah, 
my  pretty  Jenovefa,  I  shall  find  you  directly,  and  with 
you  your  Gabik !  .  .  . 

"Good  day,  friend  Margaret.  .  .  .  How  much  a 
hundred  are  your  nuts  ?  " 

"My  good  gentleman,  I  will  let  you  have  them  for 
three  reaux.  I  sell  them  as  a  rule  for  twenty-eight  a 
sou  ;  nuts  have  gone  up  so  in  price,  that  it  is  difficult 
to  make  a  living.     Times  are  indeed  hard." 

.  .  .  And  now  homewards — homewards !  All  the 
road  is  full  of  people  returning  from  the  Pardon.  .  .  . 
Ah,  the  laughter !     The  laughter  and  the  songs  !  .  .  . 

"  Alms  for  the  poor !  for  the  poor  old  man  who  can 
see  no  better  at  midday  than  at  midnight !  "  .  .  . 


AUTHOR'S   INTRODUCTION  xxiii 

It  is  old  blind  Robert  Kerbastiou,  who  has  so 
often  sung  me  "gwerzes  "  and  "Sones." 

"See,  here  are  two  sous  in  your  bowl,  poor  old 
fellow." 

"  The  blessing  of  God  be  upon  you,  and  may  you 
live  many  years !  " 

V 

Ah,  the  lovely,  lovely  evening  !  The  shrill  sound  of 
the  "  Biniou  "  comes  to  me,  mingled  with  the  perfume 
of  flowers.  .  .  .  The  sun  sinks  behind  the  hill,  and  far 
off  in  the  distance  they  are  singing  the  gwerz  of 
Kloarek  Laoudour. 

Ha !  ha !  and  who  have  we  here  under  the  beech 
tree }  Who  but  Jenovefa,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  and 
Gabik,  too,  seated  beside  her  ? 

"The  wind  is  quite  fresh  up  here.  .  .  .  And  when 
you  go  in  late,  J^no,  you  know  how  mother  scolds.  .  ,  . 
Ah,  well,  here  is  something  to  put  her  in  a  good  humour. 
Give  the  almonds  to  the  children,  to  little  brother  and 
sister,  to  father  and  mother.  For  I  have  lost  my  wager, 
Jenovefa,  have  I  not  ?  and  I  pay  willingly.  May  God 
in  heaven  bless  your  love  to  the  very  end.  Nay,  my 
dear,  do  not  blush  so.  Before  three  months  are  over, 
the  rector  will  be  marrying  you  in  church." 

That  is  a  Breton  Pardon.  Who  knows  one,  knows 
all.  And  they  are  innumerable  ;  every  country  oratory 
has  its  own.  I  could  cite  some  communes  that  have  on 
their  land  as  many  as  twenty-two  chapels — tiny  chapels, 
it  is  true,  and  half  underground,  with  roof  scarce  visible 
above  the  soil.     There  are  some  like  that  of  Saint  Gily 


xxiv  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

of  Plouaret,  that  disappear  in  the  midst  of  the  corn 
when  the  ears  are  high.  And  these  are  by  no  means 
the  least  frequented,  let  me  tell  you.  There  is  a  Breton 
proverb  that  says  it  will  not  do  to  judge  of  the  power 
of  a  saint  by  the  size  of  his  church.  Many  of  these 
sanctuaries  fall  into  ruins,  for  the  clergy  do  not  always 
give  them  the  care  they  need.  Indeed,  some  priests 
are  rather  suspicious  of  the  vague  devotion  that  goes 
on  in  their  midst,  penetrated  as  it  still  is  by  pagan  rites. 
But  as  long  as  there  remains  the  least  scrap  of  wall 
covered  with  ivy  and  brambles,  the  good  folks  of  the 
neighbourhood  continue  to  go  there  in  procession  on 
the  day  of  the  festival.  The  Pardon  long  survives  the 
destruction  of  the  sanctuary. 

Last  summer,  as  I  was  going  from  Sp6zet  to  Chateau- 
neuf-du-Faou,  I  saw  a  great  concourse  assembled  on 
the  edge  of  the  canal,  at  the  spot  where  the  road 
crosses  the  Aulne. 

"  What  are  all  those  people  doing  ?  "  asked  I  of  the 
conductor. 

"  It  is  the  Pardon  of  Saint  Iguinou,"  he  answered. 

I  searched  with  my  eyes  for  the  chapel,  but  in  vain. 
Only,  there  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  meadow  a  fountain, 
which  fell  in  a  long  hanging  shroud,  and  a  little  above 
it  on  the  flank  of  the  hill,  in  a  natural  excavation  or 
niche,  an  antique  figure,  without  date,  almost  without 
face,  a  staff  in  one  hand,  and  in  the  other  a  bouquet  of 
freshly  gathered  foxgloves.  No  religious  emblem,  not 
even  the  shadow  of  a  priest.  Nevertheless  the  solemnity 
was  most  impressive.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  the  faithful 
themselves  officiating.  .  .  . 

One    can    never    understand    what    an    important 


AUTHOR^S    INTRODUCTION  xxv 

position  the  Pardon  of  his  parish  or  district  occupies 
in  the  mind  of  the  Breton,  unless  one  is  born  of  the 
race  and  has  known  the  legends  from  childhood. 

As  a  little  one  he  is  led  to  the  Pardon  in  his  beautiful 
best  clothes,  and  the  old  folks  seem  like  fairies  who  bathe 
his  face  in  the  fountain,  so  that  the  power  of  the  sacred 
water  may  be  to  him  as  a  suit  of  diamond  armour. 

Grown  a  youth,  it  is  here  that  he  ties  the  knot  of 
friendship  with  some  pretty  one,  beside  whom,  not  so 
very  long  ago,  he  sat,  a  mere  child,  at  catechism. 
Lately  she  has  increased  in  grace  as  he  in  vigour,  and 
now  he  engages  himself  to  her,  giving  himself  over 
entirely,  without  set  phrases,  in  a  furtive  clasping  of 
hands,  in  a  look. 

All  the  dearest  and  most  sacred  emotions  of  his  life 
are  connected  with  this  poor  house  of  prayer,  with  the 
mossy  enclosure  planted  with  elms  or  beeches,  with  the 
narrow  horizon  bounded  by  a  hawthorn  hedge,  and  with 
the  mystical  atmosphere  perfumed  by  incense. 

When  at  last  he  grows  old,  it  is  to  his  Pardon  that 
he  comes  to  watch  the  joy  of  the  young,  and  to  taste, 
before  leaving  this  world,  that  short  rest  which  the  good 
genius  of  the  place,  the  tutelary  saint  of  his  clan,  has 
prepared  for  him. 

And  here,  I  think,  I  should  make  special  mention 
of  these  lesser  cults,  precisely  because  no  reference  will 
be  accorded  them  in  the  body  of  the  book. 

Among  the  multitude  of  Breton  sanctuaries,  some 
enjoy  a  celebrity  which  spreads  far  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  hamlet,  extending  perhaps  over  the  entire  country. 
Every  one  for  thirty  leagues  around  goes  on  pilgrimage 
to  them,  and  it  is  a  popular  belief  that  every  one  must 


xxvi  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

hear  Mass  in  them  at  least  once  in  life,  or  incur  the 
risk  of  eternal  damnation.  They  are  not,  as  one  would 
expect,  town  churches,  handsome  buildings  of  sumptuous 
aspect,  but  modest  oratories  differing  but  little  from 
those  of  which  we  have  already  spoken.  Nothing,  save 
the  much-used  threshold  and  wealth  of  ex-voto  offerings 
on  the  walls,  marks  them  out  for  the  attention  of  the 
passer-by.  The  saints  who  are  venerated  in  these  places 
have  no  speciality  ;  they  cure  from  all  evils.  They  are 
appealed  to  as  final  authorities,  for  they  are  believed  to 
be  all-powerful.  The  Almighty  only  moves  in  their 
way  and  by  their  advice.  "  If  they  say  'Yes,'  it  is  yes  ; 
if  they  say  '  No,'  it  is  no  !  " 

All  the  year  round  they  have  visitors,  and  the  roads 
that  lead  to  their  "  houses  "  are  never  deserted.  People 
resort  to  them  whatever  the  weather  may  be,  "even 
when  it  freezes  enough  to  make  the  bones  of  the  dead 
to  shiver."  Until  a  short  time  ago,  some  sixteen  or 
seventeen  thousand  persons  used  annually  to  attend  the 
Pardon  of  Saint  Servais  in  a  recess  of  the  mountains  of 
Ar^,  on  the  skirts  of  the  forest  of  Duault.  Thither  they 
came  from  the  three  bishoprics  of  Treguier,  Quimper, 
and  Vannes.  Servais,  whom  the  Bretons  call  Gelvest, 
or  Gelvest  ar  Pihan  (Gelvest  the  Little),  is  invoked  as 
protector  of  the  young  crops.  He  insures  them  against 
the  cold  of  winter  and  the  white  frosts  of  early  spring. 
His  Pardon  takes  place  on  the  thirteenth  of  May.  Until 
a  few  years  ago  this  poor  sanctuary  of  the  mountains 
was  celebrated  for  a  warlike  procession  that  was  held 
after  Vespers  on  the  eve  of  the  festival.  From  the  most 
distant  parishes  the  pilgrims  came,  the  men  on  horseback, 
the  women  huddled  together  in  heavy  carts.    Instead  of 


AUTHOR'S   INTRODUCTION  xxvii 

the  peeled  rod,  usual  and  peaceful  emblem  of  the  pilgrim, 
these  rough  labourers  brandished  the  penn-bas  of  holly 
or  of  oak,  iron-headed,  formidable  as  the  prehistoric  club. 
It  was  fastened  to  the  right  wrist  by  a  little  thong  of 
leather.  And  now  I  will  hand  over  the  account  to  old 
Naic  the  story-teller,  who  went  seven  times  from 
Quimper  to  Saint  Servais  barefoot. 

"  We  started  in  several  bands,  and  on  nearing  the 
chapel  we  found  the  Gwenediz,  or  people  of  Vannes, 
They  were  our  most  ferocious  foes.  Every  one  waited  for 
Vespers  ranged  in  two  camps,  the  Gwenediz  on  one  bank 
of  the  stream  that  skirts  the  churchyard,  we  on  the  other, 
and  there  we  stood  glaring  at  each  other  with  evil  eyes. 

"  At  sound  of  the  vesper  bell  the  great  doors  opened, 
and  we  all  streamed  into  church.  At  the  far  end  of  the 
nave  could  be  seen  the  great  banner,  its  staff  passed 
through  a  ring  near  the  balustrade  of  the  choir.  Not 
far  from  it  was  a  wooden  stretcher,  and  upon  this  stood 
the  little  figure  of  the  saint — Sant  Gelvest  ar  Pihan. 
There  is  a  new  one  every  year ;  the  same  would  not 
serve  twice,  for  it  is  regularly  torn  in  pieces. 

"  Now  the  Magnificat  is  entoned. 

"  Then  at  once  all  \\\e  penn-baz  are  in  the  air.  After 
each  verse  there  is  a  sound  of  '  Dig-a-drak,  dig-a-drak  ; ' 
the  church  is  full  of  a  hideous  turmoil  of  staves  clashing 
against  each  other.     The  people  of  Cornouailles  cry — 

" '  Throw  off  the  frost !   Throw  off  the  frost  I 
Oats  and  wheat  to  the  Cornouaillais  ! ' 

"  The  Vannetais  reply — 

" '  Throw  off  the  frost ! 
Oats  and  wheat  and  the  black  corn  to  the  Vannetais  ! ' 

"Meanwhile   a   strong   young   fellow  has   clutched 


xxviii  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

the  banner,  hanging  on  its  eighteen-foot  staff,  and  two 
others  lay  hold  of  the  stretcher,  to  which  the  figure  of  the 
little  saint  is  fastened.  Then,  between  the  Gwenediz  who 
are  massed  on  the  left,  and  the  Cornouaillais  on  the 
right,  advances  the  Rector  of  Duault,  very  pale,  for  the 
terrible  moment  is  at  hand.  The  banner  stoops  to  pass 
under  the  archway  of  the  door,  and  there  is  a  moment  of 
silence.  Then  suddenly  a  clamour  breaks  forth,  a  furious 
yelling  hurled  from  thousands  and  thousands  of  throats — 

" '  Scatter  the  frost !    Scatter  the  frost !  * 

"  And  so  the  conflict  of  the  penn-baz  begins.  The 
great  staves  rise  and  fall,  they  whirl  round  and  round, 
describing  large  bloody  circles,  and  thrashing  unmerci- 
fully everything  that  comes  in  their  way. 

"The  rector  and  his  choristers  have  fled  to  the 
sacristy,  and  it  is  just  a  question  of  who  is  to  remain 
master  of  the  banner  and  the  little  wooden  statue. 

"  As  to  the  women,  they  are  no  less  savage  than  the 
men,  only  in  place  of  clubs,  they  use  their  nails  and  teeth. 

"I  remember  one  year  particularly.  The  Cornouaillais 
had  triumphed,  and  there  had  been  a  perfect  hurricane 
of  blows ;  arms  were  broken,  heads  were  smashed,  and 
on  the  tombs  of  the  churchyard,  sat  men  vomiting  blood 
from  the  top  of  their  lungs. 

"  As  for  the  saint,  he  had  long  ago  been  reduced  to 
fragments. 

"  '  Pick  up  the  chips  in  your  aprons  ! '  said  the  men 
to  their  wives. 

"  Only  the  banner  remained  intact.  As  a  last  effort, 
the  Vannetais  made  a  fierce  assault  to  take  it  from  us  ; 
but  they   were  victoriously  driven  back,   and   retired 


AUTHOR'S   INTRODUCTION  xxix 

bearing  their  wounded,  from  whom  the  jolting  of  the 
carts  drew  forth  groans  of  pain. 

"For  our  part,  we  carried  the  banner  back  to  the 
church,  singing  a  song  of  thanksgiving;  and  that  year 
in  Cornouailles  the  straw  bent  under  the  weight  of  the 
corn." 

So  original  a  Pardon  as  the  foregoing  deserves  to 
have  a  place  in  this  volume,  and  I  give  it  the  more 
willingly  because  I  was  born  in  this  corner  of  the 
mountains,  in  an  old  house  almost  adjoining  the  chapel. 
Indeed,  one  of  my  earliest  memories  is  of  seeing  my 
mother,  with  her  own  delicate  hands,  applying  her  secret 
remedies  to  a  string  of  wounded  people. 

But  "Cci^fete  exists  no  longer.  The  civil  and  diocesan 
authorities  united  in  proclaiming  a  kind  of  interdict 
against  it,  and  the  sacred  battles  in  honour  of  Gelvest 
ar  Pihan  are  ended. 

The  old  people  of  the  country  will  tell  you  that  the 
agricultural  depression  is  due  to  their  abolition.  It 
seems  as  though  the  labourers  of  the  three  bishoprics 
have  lost  their  Palladium  since  people  have  given  up 
disputing  for  the  possession  of  the  banner  of  Saint 
Servais. 

The  festivals  of  Brittany  may  be  divided  under  four 
heads,  which  in  my  opinion  form  so  many  distinct 
episodes,  and  which,  taken  together,  make  up  the 
religious  life  of  the  Armorican  Bretons.  I  have  tried 
to  describe  them  from  nature,  truthfully.  I  have  seen 
most  of  these  Pardons  many  times,  and  my  wish  is  to 
bring  them  before  you,  such  as  they  appeared  to  me,  in 
all  their  worn  beauty,  with  the  features  peculiar  to  each. 

I  am  fortunate  to  have  seen  them  when  I  did,  for 


XXX  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

not  long  will  they  remain  unchanged.  Every  year  some 
alteration  is  taking  place  in  the  quaint  customs  of  the 
old  peninsula.  Further  on  you  will  read  what  one  of  our 
poets  says  as  to  the  future  of  these  fetes.  Even  to-day 
they  are  not  as  they  were  twenty  years  ago.  "  Les 
hommes-troncs,"  spoken  of  by  Le  Goffic,  have  learned 
the  way  to  our  most  remote  shrines.  Around  the  sacred 
enclosures,  song  merchants  are  more  and  more  taking 
the  place  of  the  ancient  brotherhood  of  singers,  and 
foreign  brass  instruments  now  mingle  their  coarse  bray- 
ing with  the  airy  music  of  the  bells. 

Gravest  symptom  of  all,  new  forms  of  worship  are 
replacing  the  ancient  cults,  and,  among  the  people  the 
marvellous  legends  of  their  saints  are  becoming  forgotten. 

Therefore  I  have  written  these  pages,  so  that  if  the 
sweet  soul  of  the  Breton  Pardon  should  ever  fade  away, 
those  who,  like  myself,  have  loved  it,  may  here  find 
something  of  its  poetry  and  perfume. 

Kerfeunteun,  1894. 

Since  six  years  ago  I  wrote  the  preceding  lines, 
my  little  work  has  passed  through  an  honourable  career. 
Now,  to-day,  I  am  sending  it  forth  again,  with  no  other 
change  but  the  addition  of  a  fifth  Pardon,  that  of  Saint 
Jean-du-Doigt.  May  this  new  chapter  receive  as  kind 
a  welcome  from  the  public  as  did  the  four  others.  It 
deserves  it,  if  not  because  of  the  interest  I  have  sought 
to  instil  into  it,  at  least  for  its  own  intrinsic  worth.  In 
closing,  I  should  like  to  acknowledge  all  that  I  owe  to 
the  kindness  of  Monsieur  le  Chanoine  Abgrall,  one  of 
the  truest  and  most  obliging  of  all  our  learned  Bretons. 

Port  Blanc,  1900. 


OF  SAINT  WES  AT  tueguik:;  dkcokatkd  for  thf:  pardon 


THE    LAND    OF    PARDONS 

BOOK    I.— SAINT   YVES 
THE    PARDON    OF    THE    POOR 

DEDICATED   TO    MONSIEUR   JAMES   DARMESTETER 

CHAPTER  I 

SAINT  YVES  is  the  latest  of  all  our  true  Breton 
saints,*  and  I  believe  I  am  right  in  saying  that  he  is 
the  only  one  who  has  been  canonized.  He  is  a  very  great 
saint,  and  his  fame  has  spread  far  and  wide,  beyond  the 
limits  of  the  province,  as  the  fame  of  no  other  Breton 
has  ever  done.  Within  a  year  after  his  canonization, 
he  had  a  college  at  Paris,  in  the  Rue  Saint  Jacques, 
and  there  it  stood  until  1823. 

During  the  fifteenth  century  a  chapel  was  raised  to 
him  in  the  very  heart  of  Rome  itself,  bearing  the  inscrip- 
tion :  "  Divo  Yvoni  Trecorensi : "  and,  a  little  later,  a 
brotherhood  of  lawyers  arose  in  the  same  city,  calling 
themselves  by  his  name,  and  devoting  their  time  and 

*  Ewen,  Euzen,  or  Yves  H^loury  was  born  October  7,  1253,  of 
the  noble  lady  Dame  Azou  du  Quinquiz  and  her  husband,  Tanaik 
H^loury  de  Kervarzin,  who,  it  is  said,  accompanied  Pierre  de  Dreux, 
Duke  of  Brittany,  to  the  Seventh  Crusade.  ("  Life  of  Saint  Yves,'' 
by  I'Abb^  France.) 

V.  I 


2  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

their  talents  to  the  defence  of  the  poor  and  humble 
So  far  has  the  name  of  Yves  spread,  indeed,  that  we. 
find  altars  raised  to  him  at  Angers,  Chartres,  Evreux, 
Dijon ;  while  at  Pau  on  one  occasion  we  hear  of  a 
special  procession  held  in  his  honour,  in  which  the 
parliament  took  part  gorgeously  arrayed  in  red  robes. 
At  a  grand  audience  held  in  Antwerp,  his  relics,  encased 
in  a  splendid  reliquary,  were  given  to  the  Court  to  kiss. 
The  great  Rubens  painted  a  picture  of  him  for  the 
University  of  Louvain,  and  a  fresco  by  Baccio  della 
Porta  has  lately  been  found  at  San  Gimmanio,  near 
P^rouse,  representing  the  holy  advocate  giving  free 
advice  to  a  client  in  rags. 

But  naturally  it  is  in  Brittany,  especially  in  his 
native  place  Tr^guier,  that  his  memory  and  his  worship 
flourish  most  greenly. 

The  winding  paths  leading  across  the  fields  to  his 
chapel  at  Minihy  are  frequented  all  the  year  round  by 
pilgrims  coming  to  implore  his  help.  From  all  the 
little  havens  of  the  coast  they  come  flocking,  and  even 
from  the  far-ofl"  slopes  of  the  Menez. 

One  evening  as  I  was  returning  from  a  visit  to  the 
tower  of  Saint  Michel,  that  high  solitary  ruin  which 
overlooks  all  the  Tregorrois  country,  I  was  a  good  deal 
surprised  to  see,  at  a  turn  in  the  road,  three  small  lights 
that  flickered  feebly  in  the  gathering  dusk,  whilst  in 
the  midst  of  the  great  silence  a  sound  of  voices  arose, 
very  soft,  very  monotonous,  in  a  long  and  plaintive  chant. 

As  I  approached  I  made  out  a  group  of  women 
seated  side  by  side  on  a  heap  of  stones  at  the  edge 
of  the  road.  Each  one  held  a  candle  in  her  hand, 
whose  flame  rose  almost  unwavering  in  the  still  night 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  3 

air.  I  gave  them  "  Good  evening "  in  Breton,  and 
they  stopped  their  singing  to  ask  if  it  were  yet  very 
far  to  Saint  Yves.  They  came  from  Pleumeur- 
Bodou,  and  had  made  the  journey  fasting  and  without 
a  break.  Now  they  were  just  resting  for  a  moment 
before  going  on.  Their  object  was  to  pass  the  whole 
night  praying  in  the  church, "  de  faire  la  veillee  devant 
le  saint,"  as  they  expressed  it,  then,  after  early  Mass, 
to  return  home,  barefoot  and  fasting,  even  as  they 
had  come. 

"  Have  you  carried  these  candles,  lighted  as  they 
are,  all  the  way  from  Pleumeur  ? "  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  of  course  we  have." 

"  Why  ? " 

"  Because  it  is  part  of  our  vow." 

"  And  what  is  that  vow  ?  will  you  tell  me  ? "  I  asked 
curiously. 

But  apparently  my  question  was  indiscreet.  The 
women  looked  at  each  other  in  confusion,  and  the  eldest 
of  the  three,  who  had  a  gaunt  sunburnt  face  like  that 
of  a  wrecker,  replied  severely — 

"  It  does  not  seem  to  me  that  you  are  the  blessed 
Monsieur  Saint  Yves." 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  making  a  sign  to  her  com- 
panions, and  I  saw  them  trail  off  into  the  darkness,  one 
by  one  in  single  file,  stopping  suddenly  now  and  then, 
as,  disturbed  by  the  movement  through  the  air,  the 
flame  of  a  candle  threatened  to  go  out,  and  still  I  heard 
the  humming  of  their  voices  growing  fainter  and  yet 
more  faint,  when  I  myself  had  reached  Treguier.  It 
sounded  like  a  swarm  of  bees,  travelling  from  tree  to 
tree  into  the  sonorous  depths  of  the  night. 


4  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

I  cannot  say  why  this  particular  incident  stands  out 
hi  my  memory  from  a  host  of  others  belonging  to  the 
same  place,  unless  it  is  because  a  certain  atmosphere  of 
mystery  seems  to  surround  it. 

It  is  said  in  Brittany  that  each  saint  has  his 
speciality  in  the  way  of  cures,  Maudez  cures  boils, 
Gonery  *  fevers,  Tujen,  the  bite  of  mad  dogs.  But  Yves 
is,  as  the  people  say,  good  for  everything.  That  is 
why  he  is  so  superior  to  all  the  rest.  You  can  go  to 
him  on  no  matter  what  business.  When  Saint  Yves 
has  once  got  a  thing  into  his  head,  he  will  see  it  through 
to  the  end.  Such  is  the  general  conviction.  And  so, 
while  in  these  later  days  the  greater  number  of  the 
old  miracle-workers  have  seen  their  prestige  wane,  his 
has  only  waxed  more  ;  it  is,  in  fact,  as  an  old  woman 
said  to  me,  "  II  les  depasse  tons  de  son  bonnet  carre."  f 
He  is  to  Breton  eyes,  the  learned  man,  the  doctor  par 
excellence ;  they  have  an  invincible  faith  in  his  know- 
ledge, certain,  moreover,  that  he  will  always  employ  it  in 
their  behalf.  For  he  is  not  only  science  itself,  he  is  also 
incarnate  justice.  He  is  the  great  lawgiver,  the  perfect, 
incorruptible  judge.  The  most  usual  way  in  which  he 
is  represented  is  seated  on  his  tribunal,  between  the 
good  poor  man,  whose  petition  he  is  receiving,  and  the 
rich  villain  whose  purse  he  refuses.  It  is  a  simple, 
innocent  piece  of  symbolism.     You  may  be  sure  that 

*  Saint  Gondry  has  his  church  and  sepulchre  at  Plougrescent 
a  httle  north  of  Treguier.  The  earth  from  his  tomb  is  considered 
a  cure  for  any  kind  of  fever.  It  is  sold  in  little  muslin  bao-s  and 
tied  round  the  necks  of  the  patients.  Afterwards  it  should  be  huno- 
up  in  the  church. — (F.M.G.) 

t  "  He  beats  them  all  with  his  doctor's  cap." 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  5 

the  good  poor  man  represents  the  Breton  people,  that 
race  of  miserable  souls,  inured  to  trouble  and  hardship, 
the  conditions  of  whose  life  have  remained  so  precarious, 
and  upon  whom  the  long  inheritance  of  suffering  belong- 
ing to  most  of  the  Celtic  communities  has  never  ceased 
to  press.  Like  the  good  poor  man,  the  Breton  holds 
in  his  hand  a  scroll,  on  which  are  inscribed  his  wrongs, 
his  grievances,  his  unquenchable  hope.  For  in  spite  of 
the  cruel  teaching  of  the  past,  the  Breton  has  given 
up  none  of  his  old  dreams,  has  renounced  none  of 
his  old  ideals.  Starved  of  Justice,  he  has  remained 
faithful  to  the  religion  of  Righteousness.  Like  all 
races  that  have  suffered,  he  comforts  himself  with  a 
great  messianic  hope,  and  while  waiting  for  the  im- 
probable day  when  it  shall  become  a  reality,  he  places 
his  confidence  in  Saint  Yves,  defender  of  the  humble, 
irreproachable,  miracle-working,  redresser  of  wrongs. 
Whenever  any  of  the  Tregorrois  consider  themselves 
seriously  injured  they  have  recourse  to  him,  and  in 
making  him  the  judge  of  their  quarrels,  they  call  upon 
him  by  the  beautiful  name  of  Sant  Ervoan  ar  Wiri- 
ones* 

*  Saint  Yves  le  V(fridique :  Saint  Yves  the  Truth-shower. 


THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 


CHAPTER  II 

IT  is  not,  however,  in  his  church  at  Minihy  that  Saint 
Yves  grants  audiences  in  this  capacity,  but  upon  one 
of  the  opposite  hills  on  the  other  side  of  the  Jaudy,  a 
narrow  spot,  shaded  by  elms,  overlooking  the  creek  of 
Porz-Bihan. 

There  upon  the  lands  of  the  seigneurs  du  Verger,  a 
chapel  formerly  stood,  dedicated  to  Saint  Sul.  They 
were  of  the  noble  family  of  Clisson,  these  du  Verger 
lords,  and  towards  the  eighteenth  century  they  added  to 
the  chapel  a  granite  ossuary,  intended  to  serve  as  their 
family  vault.  After  the  Revolution  the  chapel  suffered 
the  fate  of  hosts  of  other  oratories,  which,  either  from 
want  of  funds,  or  from  the  carelessness  of  the  clergy,  fell 
into  ruin.  The  chapel  of  Saint  Sul  disappeared,  but  the 
ossuary  remained.  The  statues  of  the  saints,  no  longer 
sheltered  by  the  larger  building,  there  found  a  refuge. 
Amongst  them  was  a  figure  of  Saint  Yves,  very  ancient, 
rather  barbaric  in  character,  which  for  these  two  reasons 
was  looked  upon  by  the  people  of  the  neighbourhood  as 
an  authentic  likeness. 

I  saw  this  sanctuary  of  Porz-Bihan  when  I  was  a 
child. 

I  was  taken  there  by  an  old  woman  of  Pleudaniel, 
where  we  were  then  living.  She  was  called  Monik, 
familiar  diminutive  for  Mone  or  Marie  Yvonne.  As  for 
her  trade,  she  was    a  tow-carder ;    all    the  winter  she 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  7 

carded.  I  often  used  to  run  away  at  nightfall,  and  sit 
beside  her  as  she  worked  in  her  chimney-corner,  stoop- 
ing forward  towards  her  solitary  pine  candle.  She  had 
a  most  prodigious  memory,  in  spite  of  her  seventy  years, 
and  told  me  most  wonderful  things  that  no  one  else 
seemed  to  know  anything  about.  She  spoke  in  a  slow, 
even,  monotonous  voice,  and  I  loved  listening  to  her  to 
such  an  extent  that  I  took  no  heed  to  the  grinding 
sound  of  her  combs.  Indeed,  I  am  not  sure  but  that 
the  strident  accompaniment  added  to  the  weird  charm 
of  her  stories. 

At  the  end  of  the  cold  season,  as  soon  as  the  pale 
March  sun  began  to  shine,  Monik  changed  her  occupa- 
tion. She  then  became  a  pilgrim.  People  used  to  come 
and  seek  for  her,  begging  her  (always  for  a  small  con- 
sideration), to  go  to  some  particular  chapel  or  fountain 
there  to  pay  devotions  in  their  stead.  From  that  time 
her  days  were  passed  trotting  about  the  roads.  One 
morning  as  I  passed  her  house,  I  found  her  at  her  door 
just  putting  on  her  shoes. 

"Where  are  you  going  to-day,  old  Monik?"  I 
asked. 

"  Not  far,  my  dear.  Just  over  by  Tredarzec,  scarcely 
two  leagues  away  as  the  crow  flies." 

"  Oh,  Monik,"  I  begged,  "  as  it  is  such  a  little  way, 
do  please  let  me  go  with  you." 

She  shook  her  head  several  times  very  gravely,  making 
a  queer  little  noise :  "  heu  .  .  .  heu  .  .  . "  as  though  it 
required  much  consideration  to  decide  such  a  momentous 
matter,  then  finally  answered — 

"  Well,  come  along  then." 

We  set  out  in  the  exquisite  freshness  of  the  things 


8  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

of  the  morning.  I  was  proud  to  be  travelling  thus  with 
old  Monik,  whom  I  looked  upon  as  a  very  distinguished 
person,  living  as  she  did  in  perpetual  and  close  converse 
with  the  saints. 

We  went  by  paths  known  only  to  my  guide,  short 
cuts  that  led  through  the  high  grass  of  the  meadows 
and  among  the  prickly  thickets  of  the  moorlands,  and 
always  a  great  hush  lay  over  the  dewy  land. 

We  walked  at  a  good  pace,  so  that  was  how  I  noticed 
by-and-by  that  Monik  was  limping  with  one  foot. 

"  It  is  nothing, "  said  she,  in  answer  to  my  remark 
about  it.  "  I  had  to  put  something  in  my  shoe,  and  it 
hurts  me  a  little." 

"  Why  don't  you  take  your  shoe  off .-'  "  I  asked. 

But  she  waved  the  matter  away  with  her  hand, 
as  if  to  say,  "  Pray  say  no  more  ;  after  all,  it  is  my 
business,  not  yours, "  and  went  limping  on  as  before, 
murmuring  vague  prayers,  of  which  I  understood  not 
a  word. 

At  Tredarzec  she  stopped  at  the  church  door,  telling 
me  to  sit  on  a  tombstone  and  wait  for  her  till  she  had 
finished  praying  inside;  .  .  .  then,  a  moment  or  two  after, 
we  were  again  on  our  way  through  the  fields. 

"And  now,"  said  Monik,  "you  must  be  quiet;  do 
not  talk  to  me  just  now.  You  can  amuse  yourself  by 
whistling  to  the  blackbirds." 

I  noticed  that  her  manner  had  become  very  abrupt, 
almost  savage.  Her  little  eyes  were  gleaming  strangely 
in  her  withered  old  face,  roughened  and  wrinkled  like  the 
bark  of  an  oak  tree.  All  kinds  of  disagreeable  thoughts 
came  to  me,  quite  spoiling  my  pleasure,  and  I  would 
have  run  away  had  I  dared.     But  I  have  kept  only  a 


"■*1i»»«-...-  •■       -*■- 


MO.\  I  In  .^    ri  i.i  .1: 1  \i  \i  .1. 


p-f) 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  9 

veiy  confused  remembrance  of  this  part  of  the  journey 
I  know  that  every  now  and  then  we  passed  the  threshing- 
floors  of  farms,  and  the  farmers'  wives,  who  all  recog- 
nized Monilc,  came  to  their  doors  to  speak  to  her  as  we 
passed. 

"Ah,  Monik,"  they  would  say,  "so  you  are  going 
down  there  ? " 

*'  Yes,  yes,  once  again,"  she  would  answer  ;  "  when 
things  are  not  as  they  should  be,  one  must  go  to  some 
one  who  will  set  them  right." 

These  mysterious  remarks,  exchanged  in  low,  quick 
tones,  did  not  serve  to  lessen  my  uneasiness. 

In  the  hollow  of  a  ravine,  between  moss-trimmed 
walls  of  granite,  a  fountain  of  cold  black  water  slept 
forlornly.  Monik  knelt  upon  its  margin,  and  I  thought 
that  she  was  going  to  drink.  But  she  only  took  a  little 
water  in  her  two  hands  and  scattered  it  upon  the  earth 
around,  muttering  strange,  unknown  words. 

Then  came  highlands  ("  meziou,"  as  they  are  called), 
waste,  bare,  and  billowy ;  a  last  plateau,  and  before 
us,  just  beyond  the  glistening  calm  of  the  river, 
Treguier  arose,  luminous,  "thrown  up  in  a  single  jet" — 
a  dream  city,  with  the  purple  tints  of  its  old  roofs,  its 
multitude  of  turrets,  and  in  the  midst,  all  rosy  red,  the 
tall  spire  of  its  cathedral,  circled  round  by  great  flocks 
of  jackdaws.  The  yards  of  the  ships,  entangled  in  the 
branches  of  the  trees  that  lined  the  quay,  seemed 
covered  once  again  with  the  green  shoots  of  former 
springtides. 

Every  little  sound  reached  us  quite  distinctly,  the 
clatter  of  the  sabots  on  the  pavement,  the  singing  of 
the  caulkers  in  the  boats. 


10  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

Further  back,  amid  a  confusion  of  foliage,  lay  Minihy, 
and  Plouguiel  stood  out  in  silhouette  on  the  ridge  of  a 
promontory. 

To  me,  that  day,  Treguier  seemed  a  fairy  city  lying 
in  the  midst  of  an  enchanted  land. 

Meanwhile,  Monik  had  turned  off  to  the  right  by  a 
bush  of  broom,  where  a  deserted  dove-cote  cast  a  melan- 
choly shade.  Near  by,  two  or  three  poor  slate-roofed 
cottages,  a  cluster  of  elms  distorted  by  the  westerly 
winds,  and  at  their  feet,  in  a  hidden  nook,  a  queer 
little  building,  half  chapel,  half  stable.  We  were  at  our 
journey's  end. 

"  Say  your  prayers,  child,"  said  Mone  to  me.  "  Here 
lives  the  great  saint  of  the  Bretons,  here  lives  Yves  le 
Veridique." 

They  were  the  first  words  that  she  had  spoken  to 
me  since  leaving  Tredarzec.     She  added — 

"  But  first  take  a  good  look  at  him  ;  that  is  his 
statue  that  you  see  over  there  in  the  angle  of  the 
wall.  He  is  represented  exactly  as  he  looked  when 
he  was  alive,  during  the  time  that  he  was  Rector  of 
Treguier." 

A  ghostly  vapour  filled  the  sanctuary,  which  was 
lighted  only  by  the  door,  and  by  a  kind  of  loop-hole 
pierced  in  one  of  the  side  walls.  At  the  end,  a  rough, 
whitewashed  altar  had  been  built,  and  upon  its  bare 
stone  top,  unadorned  by  either  cloth  or  ornaments,  a 
row  of  saints  leant  one  against  another,  shoulder  to 
shoulder,  like  a  group  of  drunken  men.  They  had, 
for  the  most  part,  rough  but  kindly  faces,  each  framed 
by  a  woolly  head-dress  and  a  beard  collar,  reminding 
one   unmistakably    of  the   people   by  whom    we  were 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  U 

constantly  surrounded,  fishers  of  the  Trieux  and  sailors 
of  the  Jaudy. 

One  solitary  statue  occupied  the  corner  on  the  right ; 
it  was  that  to  which  Monik  had  directed  my  attention. 
It  had  a  human  figure,  much  taller  than  any  of  the 
others,  but  equally  worn  away ;  the  wood  of  which  it 
was  formed  was  cracked,  rotten,  infected  with  a  leprous 
mouldiness.  The  face  alone  had  preserved  some  traces 
of  the  ancient  colouring,  strangely  faded  ;  and  the  dull, 
weird  pallor  gleamed  in  the  shadow  as  though  it  were 
phosphorescent,  making  one  think  of  the  face  of  a 
corpse  seen  by  candle-light. 

I  only  dared  to  glance  at  the  figure  stealthily,  too 
frightened  to  pray  or  even  to  feel  much  curiosity.  I 
knew  well  with  what  terrible  powers  this  saint  was  said 
to  be  endowed.  During  the  long  winter  evenings  the 
old  tow-carder  had  enlightened  me  a  good  deal  on  the 
subject  by  means  of  mysterious  hints  and  half  con- 
fidences. So  I  was  not  particularly  comfortable  at  find- 
ing myself  face  to  face  with  this  uncanny  person,  whose 
eyes  had  the  most  disconcerting  way  of  staring  at  one. 
Monik  had  taken  the  shoe  from  her  left  foot,  the  one 
with  which  she  had  been  limping,  and  having  removed 
from  it  one  of  those  eighteen-farthing  bronze  pieces,  then 
still  sometimes  met  with  in  the  Tregorrois,  put  it  care- 
fully in  a  fold  of  the  saint's  alb.  Then,  turning  up  her 
petticoat,  so  that  her  bare  knees  rested  on  the  damp 
soil,  she  entered  into  a  state  of  devotion. 

The  time  seemed  long,  very  long.  I  was  sitting 
among  the  grass  outside  the  chapel,  watching  the  sails 
glide  down  the  smooth  green  river.  Suddenly  Monik 
began  to  speak  aloud  in  a  sharp  tone,     I  leaned  forward 


12  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

and  saw  her  standing  up,  addressing  the  saint  quite 
severely  ;  and  shaking  him  by  the  shoulder  several  times, 
she  cried  aloud  in  Breton — 

"If  they  are  right,  condemn  us.  If  we  are  right, con- 
demn them.  Let  them  wither  upon  their  feet  and  die 
at  the  appointed  time." 

In  her  voice  and  gesture  there  was  a  kind  of  savage 
ferocity  that  frightened  me. 

She  came  out  of  the  oratory,  her  eyes  lighted  by  an 
unholy  gleam,  and  three  times  made  the  tour  of  the 
exterior.  This  over,  she  knelt  for  a  few  moments  before 
the  entrance,  and  when  she  rose  she  wore  her  usual 
expression,  her  grandmotherly  face  full  of  a  childish 
sweetness,  whose  very  wrinkles  seemed  to  smile. 

"  That  is  over,"  saidshe  ;  "  come,  let  us  get  away 
quickly." 

It  was  simply  delicious,  this  return  in  all  the  joy  of 
the  midday  sunshine  through  the  lovely  early  spring- 
tide. Monik  talked  and  talked  as  though  to  make  up 
for  the  silence  she  had  been  obliged  to  observe  up  to 
then.  At  Tredarzec  she  absolutely  insisted  on  my 
eating  cakes  at  a  little  roadside  stall.  How  gay  she 
was,  to  be  sure  !  The  ends  of  old  songs  kept  coming  to 
her  lips.  I  had  never  seen  her  in  such  high  spirits. 
She  was  not  limping  now.  Oh  dear  me,  no,  not  in  the 
least ;  far  from  that,  she  trotted  nimbly  along,  hopping 
like  a  bird. 

"You  seem  very  happy,  old  mother,"  said  I  at 
last. 

"  Ah,  so  I  am,  little  son.  I  have  a  weight  off  my 
mind.  Some  of  the  commissions  that  they  give  me  to 
do  are  not  at  all  pleasant,  my  dear." 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  13 

"  What  was  the  one  you  did  not  Hke'to-day,  Monik  ? " 

"  Hush,"  she  murmured,  stopping  suddenly  as  though 

to  listen   to  a  chaffinch  that  was  chirping  loudly  on  a 

clump  of  alders  close  by  ;  and  I  did  not  dare  to  press 

her,  so  we  talked  of  something  else. 

What  Monik  from  a  professional  scruple  refused  to 
tell  me,  I  learnt  later. 

The  owner  of  a  fishing-smack  at  Camarel,  Pleudaniel, 
had  had  a  dispute  with  his  sailor,  something  to  do  with 
some  accounts  that  they  could  not  agree  over.  Bitter 
words  were  exchanged,  and  the  quarrel  kept  growing. 
They  continued  to  fish  together,  but  often  passed  twenty 
or  thirty  hours  at  sea  without  exchanging  a  single  word, 
and  people  were  heard  to  say — 

"  You  will  see  that  no  good  will  come  of  that 
business." 

One  night  the  sailor  presented  himself  in  dripping 
clothes,  with  a  wild  excited  air,  at  the  Customs  House 
at  Lezardrieux.  His  tale  ran  that  the  smack,  which 
was  a  rotten  old  thing,  had  struck  on  a  rock,  had 
foundered,  and  that  the  master,  unable  to  swim,  had 
been  forced  to  *'  drink  once  for  all." 

Now,  there  was  nothing  at  all  improbable  in  this 
story,  and  no  one  at  first  disbelieved  the  sailor.  But 
presently  the  neighbours  at  Camarel  began  to  gossip. 
Roused  by  this,  the  widow  of  the  drowned  man  made  a 
scene  at  the  funeral,  which  took  place,  when,  at  the  end 
of  the  ninth  day,*  the  body  was  recovered. 

*  It  is  a  firm  belief  all  along  the  Breton  coast  (justified,  so  they 
say,  by  many  examples)  that  the  sea  never  gives  up  the  bodies  of 
those  whom  she  has  swallowed  in  less  than  nine  days. 


14  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  cried,  just  as  the  coffin  was  dis- 
appearing into  the  grave,  "  we  all  know  about  your 
death.  I  swear  that  those  who  are  rejoicing  over  it 
shall  have  cause  to  weep." 

From  that  moment  the  sailor  found  life  no  longer 
worth  living.  There  was  not  an  insult  that  he  had  not 
to  submit  to  from  the  widow  and  her  numerous  relations. 
In  vain  did  he  seek  work  under  another  master  ;  every 
one  told  him,  with  an  ironical  air,  that  they  had  no 
desire  for  a  man  on  board  who  brought  ill  luck.  At 
last,  just  as  he  was  on  the  point  of  quitting  the  country, 
in  despair  he  went  to  see  Monik,  going  at  nightfall  so 
that  he  should  not  be  noticed. 

"  Yves  le  Vdridique  must  decide  between  the  widow 
and  myself,"  he  said.  "  I  implore  you  to  go  and  appeal 
to  him  in  my  name." 

We  have  seen  how  faithfully  the  deputy-pilgrim  ful- 
filled her  commission.  During  the  course  of  the  follow- 
ing year  the  widow  fell  into  a  decline,  withered  on  her 
feet  like  a  plant  injured  in  its  root,  and  finally  died. 
The  sailor  had  gained  the  day. 

This  popular  form  of  the  cult  of  Saint  Yves  will 
doubtless  remind  my  readers  of  the  famous  proof  of  the 
"judgment  of  God  "  so  usually  resorted  to  in  the  Middle 
Ages. 

And  now  the  little  oratory  of  Porz-Bihan  is  a  thing 
of  the  past.  When  I  went  there  this  summer  to  refresh 
my  childish  memory  of  the  place,  I  found,  indeed,  the 
deep  ravine  with  its  fountain  of  water,  too  black  to 
reflect  my  face  as  I  bent  over  it ;  and  on  the  bare 
plateau  I  once  again  noticed  the  dove-cote,  casting  the 
same  solitary  shadow  as  of  yore.      I  came  across  the 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  15 

elm  trees,  too,  more  twisted  than  ever,  fixed  in  paralytic 
attitudes.  By  the  side  of  the  stony  road  was  the  same 
group  of  low,  heavily  roofed  huts,  whose  shaking  walls 
were  propped  by  oars.  But  of  the  ancient  building 
nothing  remained  save  the  foundations,  represented  by 
some  rough  scattered  stones,  buried  beneath  a  fretwork 
of  brambles,  from  which  the  neighbouring  children  were 
gathering  blackberries,  bringing  back  to  my  remem- 
brance a  certain  little  scamperer  of  meadows  whom  I 
had  known  in  former  years. 

I  have  related  elsewhere  *  the  circumstances  under 
which  this  shrine  was  demolished.  The  Rector  of 
Tredarzec,  in  whose  parish  it  stood,  was  foremost  in 
the  work  of  destruction.  He  had  it  entirely  razed  to 
the  ground,  and  removed  the  saint  to  a  garret  in  the 
parsonage. 

But  it  is  easier  to  pull  down  a  wall  than  to  root  up 
a  superstition,  especially  in  Brittany. 

People  still  continued  to  come  to  pray  upon  the 
site  of  the  old  chapel.  Not  long  ago,  indeed,  a  woman 
of  the  country  of  Goelo,  having  been  cheated  by  a 
notary,  passed  the  night  on  the  spot,  lying  prostrate  on 
the  earth,  under  rain  which  fell  in  torrents,  and  returned 
home,  half  dead  with  cold,  but  sure  of  being  avenged.f 

*  "  La  Legende  de  la  Mort,"  p.  222,  note  2  ;  read  also  "  Crucifid 
de  Kdrali^s,"  that  delicate,  sombre,  yet  passionate  story  in  which 
Charles  le  Goffic  has  told  in  another  setting  the  Drama  of 
Hengoat.  The  victim  was  named  Omnes,  and  the  old  sorceress 
who  devoted  her  to  Saint  Yves  (the  Kato  Prunennec  of  the  story) 
was  named  Kato  Briand. 

t  On  the  day  I  visited  Porz-Bihan,  in  December,  1903,  no 
fewer  than  three  pilgrims  had  been  seen  praying  on  the  site  of  the 
demolished  chapel. — (F.M.G.) 


16  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

There  are  many  people  in  the  neighbourhood  who 
will  tell  you  that  the  saint  goes  every  evening  to  Porz- 
Bihan  to  retake  possession  of  his  ruined  house.  They 
have  often  met  him. 

But  the  story  does  not  stop  here,  for  it  is  said  that 
the  sacrilegious  rector  was  punished  for  his  crime  by 
Saint  Yves  himself     Here  are  the  circumstances  : — 

On  a  certain  evening  after  nightfall,  three  men 
strangers  to  the  parish,  presented  themselves  at  the 
door  of  the  parsonage. 

"  What  do  you  want  ?  "  asked  the  servant. 

"  We  wish  to  speak  to  monsieur  the  rector." 

"  He  is  at  dinner.     What  do  you  want  with  him  ?  " 

"  We  want  him  to  allow  us  to  kneel  before  the  image 
of  Yves  le  Veridique,  who,  they  say,  is  a  prisoner  in  his 
garret." 

Impressed  by  the  curious  tone  in  which  these  words 
were  spoken,  the  servant  hastened  to  warn  her  master, 
although  she  knew  that  he  disliked  being  disturbed 
during  his  meals. 

A  moment  after,  the  rector,  napkin  in  hand,  appeared 
at  the  dining-room  door.     He  looked  very  angry  indeed. 

"  Be  off,"  he  cried,  "  you  rascals !  Saint  Yves  has 
nothing  to  do  with  your  murderous  prayers." 

"  So  be  it,"  calmly  answered  one  of  the  strangers. 
"  That  being  so,  we  all  three  summon  you  to  his  tribunal. 
To-day  is  Saturday ;  you  will  have  the  night  for  re- 
pentance, and  to-morrow — well  to-morrow  you  will  not 
celebrate  High  Mass." 

Then  the  mysterious  visitors  disappeared,  no  one 
could  say  how. 

The  rector  retired  to  bed  at  his  usual  hour.     He 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  17 

felt  depressed,  and  was  haunted  by  gloomy  thoughts. 
As  for  the  servant,  she  was  in  a  state  of  absolute  terror. 
She  turned  over  and  over  between  the  sheets,  quite 
unable  to  sleep.  The  sinister  prophecy  of  the  three 
pilgrims  still  obstinately  sounded  in  her  ears. 

Suddenly  she  started.  Down  the  staircase  from  the 
garret  came  a  heavy  step,  "  the  step  of  some  one  made 
of  wood."  Now  it  sounded  in  the  corridor ;  a  door 
opened,  there  was  a  cry,  a  long,  terrible  groan,  inter- 
rupted by  a  choking  rattle.  Was  it  in  the  rector's 
room  ?  "  There  will  be  plenty  of  time  to  go  and  see. 
Misfortunes  are  always  known  soon  enough,"  thinks  the 
servant.  And  so  she  lay  still,  with  her  face  against  the 
wall,  and  the  sweat  pouring  from  her  body. 

When,  at  early  dawn  on  the  morrow,  they  entered 
the  chamber  of  the  rector,  they  found  him  dead  in  his 
bed,  the  coverlet  pulled  up  over  his  face. 


18  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 


CHAPTER  III 

I  NEED  not  say  that  even  in  the  eyes  of  our  peasants, 
all  the  mass  of  superstition  to  which  the  cult  of  Yves 
le  Veridique  has  given  birth  is  no  more  than  a  caricature 
of  the  broad,  pure,  humane  worship  that  they  render  to 
the  true  Saint  Yves. 

Visit  the  cottages  of  the  seashore,  or,  as  they  call  it 
in  Breton,  "  the  Armor  Tr^gorrois."  What  strikes  you 
even  as  you  cross  the  threshold  is  a  simple  coloured 
fresco  drawing,  by  an  unpretentious  artist.  It  is  always 
in  the  best-lighted  position,  generally  in  the  window 
embrasure,  where  the  faded  family  photographs  glitter 
in  their  smart  frames. 

Nine  times  out  of  ten  the  drawing  represents  Saint 
Yves,  and  if  you  go  from  one  cottage  to  another,  you 
will  find  the  type  invariably  the  same  ;  the  face  beard- 
less and  gentle,  the  body  concealed  in  a  priestly  stiffness, 
a  purse  in  the  right  hand,  a  book  in  the  left,  the  whole 
figure  having  the  air  of  a  very  young  priest  lately  come 
from  the  seminary,  of  a  clerk  quite  recently  promoted 
to  the  charge  of  souls.  In  my  childhood  I  have  known 
vicars  who  resembled  this  figure  feature  for  feature, 
fair  rosy  young  men  with  shy  awkward  gestures  and 
meditative  eyes,  a  mixture  of  the  peasant  and  the 
mystic. 

There  used  formerly  to  be  all  over  Brittany  a  wander- 
ing brotherhood  of  rustic  painters,  who  went  from  village 


i.-^lK:|^.  -•'^?■ 


«iiS^ 


¥l  /■'>- ..: 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  19 

to  village  decorating  the  houses  of  the  poor  with  these 
sacred  pictures.  Poor  daubers  for  the  most  part  they 
were,  but,  struggling  hard  nevertheless  after  a  high  dream 
of  idealism,  they  now  and  then  had  happy  inspirations, 
chance  intuitions  worthy  of  old  Orcagna. 

I  am  very  much  afraid  that  Mahik  Rdmond  will  be 
the  last  of  these  our  popular  painters.  He  is  one  of  the 
most  curious  personalities  of  that  Brittany,  now  fast  dis- 
appearing. I  had  been  meaning  to  pay  him  a  visit  for 
some  months.  His  cottage  crowns  a  rock  in  the  romantic 
valley  of  the  Guindy  about  two  kilometres  from  Treguier. 
Outside  it  is  nothing  more  than  an  ordinary  hovel,  but 
within  it  is  indeed  a  sanctuary.  Even  the  altar  is  there, 
at  the  far  end  of  the  house,  facing  the  hearth.  Above  it 
is  a  tabernacle  of  glazed  earthenware,  ornamented  with 
an  extraordinary  representation  of  the  Last  Supper.  As 
to  furniture,  there  are  but  the  barest  necessaries :  a  bed, 
a  cupboard,  standing  beside  one  another  with  the  un- 
comfortable air  of  things  that  feel  out  of  place.  For 
the  rest,  empty  walls,  or  rather  peopled — peopled  to 
excess  with  Mabik's  superabundant  visions. 

At  the  moment  when  I  crossed  the  threshold,  the 
master  of  the  house  was  seated  on  a  stool  in  the 
chimney-corner  superintending  the  cooking  of  the  mid- 
day meal.  He  welcomed  me  without  disturbing  himself, 
according  to  Breton  fashion. 

"  If  you  are  a  Christian,  make  yourself  at  home 
here,"  said  he,  with  the  quiet  poHteness  of  those  of  the 
lower  orders  in  Basse  Bretagne,  who  allow  people  to 
come  among  them. 

Two  coarsely  carved  heads  projected  from  the  angles 
of  the  chimney.    One  held  the  iron  claw  of  the  golb-ltitik 


20  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

(the  long,  slender,  twisted  pine  candle)  between  its 
lips,  like  a  pipe.  It  was  Ravachol,  Mabik  explained 
to  me,  and  the  other  opposite  was  the  devil  tempting 
him.  Le  Petit  Journal  has  found  its  way  into  this 
unlettered  Armorica. 

We  soon  became  the  best  of  friends,  for  I  spoke 
Breton,  and  he  was  a  smoker.  Whilst  helping  himself 
to  my  tobacco  he  told  me  the  story  of  his  life. 

He  was  born,  to  use  his  own  expression,  in  some 
ditch  or  other,  like  any  weed,  and  ever  since  he  had 
been  sweeping  chimneys.  Every  now  and  then  he  had 
married,  and  had  been,  as  he  said,  "  widowed  and  re- 
widowed  ; "  he  was  now  living  with  his  fourth  wife.  As 
I  expressed  my  sympathy,  he  observed  philosophically — 

"  Oh,  they  are  always  a  little  damaged  when  they 
marry  me  ;  but,"  he  added  quickly,  "  they  have  all  been 
pretty  enough  to  make  up  for  that,  as  any  of  my  neigh- 
bours will  tell  you." 

He  certainly  is  ugly  enough — bald,  with  a  dirty 
bristling  beard,  and  squinting  eyes,  a  regular  "paysan 
du  Danube,"  even  to  his  eloquence,  with  soot,  moreover, 
great  plaques  of  black,  encrusting  his  old  cheeks.  If 
any  one  asked  him  why,  with  the  river  at  his  very  door, 
he  never  washed  himself,  he  would  reply  with  a  mis- 
chievous look,  that  for  at  least  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
afterwards  the  clear  soul  of  the  running  water  would 
be  troubled  by  it,  and  very  likely  she  would  be  too 
disgusted  to  sing. 

" She  has  quite  enough  to  do,"  he  would  say,  "wash- 
ing the  dirt  off  those  townspeople." 

The  townspeople  he  detests,  and  looks  upon  them 
with  the  lordly  contempt  of  one  of  the  rebels  of  1S30, 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  POOR  21 

expressed   in   language  whose   picturesque   violence   I 
must  be  excused  from  translating. 

"  I  want  to  hear  about  your  saints,  Mabik  Remond," 
say  I,  after  a  little  while.   "  Tell  me  about  your  museum." 

"There  it  is,"  he  answered,  waving  his  hand  around. 
"Those  are  the  walls  on  which  I  practise.  When  I 
have  really  settled  my  man  in,  and  know  that  from  that 
time  forward  I  shall  have  him  ready  to  hand,  I  lay  a 
layer  of  limewater  over  him,  and  begin  something  else. 
You  see  this  Saint  Tremeur  ?  I  painted  him  out  fifteen 
times.  It  is  very  difficult  to  catch  the  expression  of  a 
man  of  that  kind — one  who  carries  his  head  in  his  arms 
instead  of  on  his  shoulders.  Then  that  Saint  Laurence 
— ah,  he  gave  me  a  lot  of  trouble  ;  and  Saint  Herbot 
here  was  worse  still.  What  do  you  say  ?  My  models  ? 
Oh,  just  the  stone  or  wooden  figures  I  kneel  to  in  the 
chapels,  when  I  am  on  my  chimney-sweeping  journeys 
through  the  Tregorrois  country  between  Plestin  and 
Paimpol.  I  look  at  them,  I  study  them,  I  pray  to  them, 
and  then  I  carry  away  their  likeness  in  my  eyes." 

And  so,  no  doubt,  he  has,  for  he  has  remained  very 
faithful  to  ancient  traditions.  These  early  Breton  saints 
have  bequeathed  their  secret  hearts  to  him,  and  he  has 
reproduced  their  awkward  yet  expressive  appearance 
with '  extraordinary  fidelity.  It  is  a  very  simple  form 
of  art,  coarse  one  might  almost  call  it,  and  yet  sym- 
bolical to  a  rare  degree — symbolical,  and  at  the  same 
time  intensely  realistic. 

"  When  and  how  did  this  idea  of  being  a  painter  of 
saints  first  come  to  you,  Mabik  >  "  I  asked  at  length. 

"  How  can  I  tell  ?  Does  any  one  know  why  the 
stars  rise  when  the  night  comes  down  ?     I  have  always 


22  THE   LAND  OF  PARDONS 

been  fond  of  the  beautiful  things  in  the  churches,  the 
old,  old  churches  of  the  past,  that  were  full  of  such 
marvels  as  we  shall  never  see  again.  When  I  was  quite 
a  little  lad,  travelling  hither  and  thither,  sweeping 
chimneys,  I  used  often  to  sleep  in  deserted  chapels,  for 
no  one  thought  of  shutting  their  doors.  I  sometimes 
lay  awake  for  a  long  time  before  going  to  sleep,  or 
rather  I  used  to  keep  on  waking  up  in  the  night, 
fancying  that  I  heard  the  poor  saints  weeping  in  the 
darkness. 

"  '  Mabik,'  they  would  say  to  me,  '  Mabik,  we  are  so 
very,  very  old,  older  even  than  your  dear  father  ;  ours 
is  indeed  a  sad  fate.  When  we  have  quite  rotted  away 
we  shall  be  forgotten  ;  no  one  will  remember  even  our 
faces.' " 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  then  went  on  in  a  lower 
voice — 

"  Besides,  you  know,  there  was  something  else.  The 
women  are  often  very  troublesome.  They  make  scenes, 
and  when  that  happens  I  don't  stay  to  listen  ;  I  just 
pack  off.  I  dare  say  you  know  the  ruined  oratory  of 
Saint  Elud  in  the  pine  wood,  a  little  above  La  Fontaine- 
de-Minuet.  Well,  that  is  my  refuge,  my  'house  of 
peace,'  No  more  human  voices  there ;  no  more  scold- 
ing tongues,  but  a  deep  solitude  where  the  days  flow 
slowly  by  under  the  great  melodious  trees.  One  winter, 
a  short  time  after  my  second  marriage,  I  lived  out  there 
for  over  a  week.  I  had  taken  a  few  crusts  of  bread  by 
way  of  food,  and  as  for  drink,  I  had  only  to  go  to  the 
spring.  The  nights  were  glowing  and  frosty.  I  put 
together  a  roof  of  bracken  to  shelter  my  head,  and  a 
fire  of  pine  needles  to  warm  my  feet,  and  one  night  as  I 


•<  CO 


■r.  5 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  23 

was  just  falling  asleep  I  heard  some  one  call  me  by  my 
name.  I  opened  my  eyes,  and  there  before  me,  out  of 
the  white  mist  that  rose  from  the  valley,  I  saw  a  vision 
grow,  the  phantom  of  a  saint,  whom  I  knew  at  once.  It 
was  Yves  of  Kervarzin,  the  kindly  priest,  the  entertainer 
of  houseless  vagabonds,  the  friend  of  penniless  wretches. 

"As  he  showed  himself  to  me  that  night,  so  I  have 
painted  him  ever  since,  as  far  as  I  was  able,  with  his 
black  cap,  his  long  cassock,  and  his  beautiful  alb,  all 
sparkling  as  though  woven  out  of  the  moonlight.  It 
was  he  who  began  my  fame  as  an  artist.  I  painted 
him  first  in  one  farm,  then  in  another,  till  at  last,  as 
soon  as  I  went  into  a  house,  they  would  catch  me  by 
the  waistcoat,  crying — 

"  *  Sweep  our  chimneys  or  not  as  you  please  ;  that  is 
all  one  to  us,  but  you  must  draw  over  there  by  the 
window  ;  you  must  draw  your  Saint  Ervoan.' 

"And  even  now,  when  I  pass  by  the  doors,  the  little 
ones  flock  out,  crying — 

" '  Here  is  Mabik  Remond ;  here  is  the  blackbird  of 
Saint  Yves.' 

"  But  unfortunately  the  good  things  of  this  life  only 
come  once.  Can  you  tell  me  of  a  single  fisherman's  or 
peasant's  cottage  in  Tr^gor  which  has  not  the  great 
holy  figure  upon  its  walls  ?  So  I  have  been  obliged  to 
look  for  other  subjects.  Oh  yes,  I  know  that  in  our 
country  there  are  plenty  of  saints.  Boatloads  of  them 
landed  hereabouts  that  had  Lewias  to  pilot  them  and 
Tugdual  as  captain.  I  know  them  all  well  enough,  and 
if  there  was  any  good  in  it  I  could  give  you  their 
names,  their  history,  and  the  faces  that  have  come 
down  to  us  as  theirs.     I  even  bring  them  to  life  again 


24  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

after  a  fashion,  with  a  little  soft  brick  and  some  soot. 
People  say,  'Make  us  such  and  such  a  saint,  Mabik,' 
and  I  make  him.  But  look  here.  Til  tell  you  what  it 
is.  If  I  could  do  as  I  liked,  I  would  paint  none  but 
Saint  Yves.  The  young  rascals  are  quite  right ;  a 
painter  of  Saint  Yves  I  have  lived,  and  a  painter  of 
Saint  Yves  I  shall  die.  .  .  ." 

So  spoke  Mabik  R^mond  on  that  peaceful  August 
afternoon,  when  for  a  little  while  I  was  his  guest,  while 
the  mill  of  Job-An-Du  tick-tacked  steadily  down  in  the 
valley,  and  the  bells  of  Minihy  rang  for  a  baptism. 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE   POOR 


CHAPTER  IV 

TWO  years  earlier,  during  the  vacation  of  1890,  I  was 
sitting  beneath  the  spreading  shadows  of  the 
garden  at  Rosmapamon.  We  had  been  talking  of  the 
new  tomb  of  Saint  Yves  which  was  shortly  to  be  dedi- 
cated in  the  church  of  Treguier,  and  now,  in  this 
shadowy  old  garden,  the  greatest  enchanter  whom 
Brittany  has  produced  since  Merlin,  called  up  before 
a  group  of  his  friends  those  memories  of  his  child- 
hood that  centred  round  the  ancient  monument. 

"  I  never  saw  it  with  my  eyes,"  said  he.  "  It  was 
destroyed  during  the  Revolution  by  the  horde  of 
vandals  who  have  left  such  terrible  marks  of  their 
passage  over  our  Armorica.  But  several  old  people 
whom  I  knew  in  my  childhood  remembered  it,  and  they 
have  often  told  me  about  it.  It  seems  that  it  must 
have  been  a  most  beautiful  thing.  Our  sculptors  in  the 
fifteenth  century  were  very  clever  artists,  and  quite 
original.  It  is  most  lamentable  that  such  a  master- 
piece should  have  disappeared.  As  far  back  as  I  can 
remember,  there  was  never  anything  in  the  place  where 
it  formerly  stood  but  a  slab  of  red  marble.  My  mother 
had  her  chair  close  beside  it,  at  the  foot  of  the  pulpit. 
When  first  they  thought  of  re-erecting  the  monument, 
they  raised  this  slab,  and  made  some  excavations  in 
the  hope  of  discovering  relics  of  the  saint. 


26  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

"Can  you  believe  me,  when  I  say  that  they  found 
nothing  ?  It  is  very  much  to  the  honour  of  our  honest 
Breton  clergy  that  it  was  so.  Italian  priests  would 
certainly  have  found  something. 

"Perhaps  it  is  a  pity  that  the  new  tomb  has  been 
placed  so  exactly  on  the  site  of  the  old.  I  myself  am 
sorry  for  it.  In  its  present  position  it  lacks  distinction) 
space,  remoteness  ;  anywhere  else  it  would  have  looked 
better ;  in  the  Duke's  Chapel,  for  example.  At  all 
events,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  by  the  aid  of  some  suit- 
able dark-coloured  pedestal  it  will  be  enabled  to  stand 
out  better  from  its  surroundings.* 

"  There  is  another  thing  that  I  regret  very  much,  the 
omission  of  good  John  of  Kergoz  from  among  the  ranks  of 
those  figures  that  form  the  guard  of  Saint  Yves.  He  was 
the  saint's  teacher,  and  the  most  devoted  of  his  friends. 
I  once  visited  the  old  manor  house  of  Kerborz,  and  saw 
the  room  where  they  studied  together,  John  acting  as 
tutor.  When  the  time  at  last  came  for  the  boy  to  leave 
home,  that  time  so  dreaded  by  all  Breton  mothers,  it 
was  to  John  of  Kergoz  that  Dame  Azou  du  Quinquiz 
entrusted  her  son  with  all  kinds  of  anxious  instructions. 
How  seriously  he  undertook  his  task,  leading  Yves  as 
by  the  hand  up  to  man's  estate  !  You  know  that  the 
saint  died  early.  John  himself,  on  the  other  hand,  per- 
sisted in  living  on,  until  he  had  taken  part  in  the 
canonization  of  his  pupil.  It  was  not  till  then  that 
he  laid  down  his  trust,  and  I  think  it  must  have  been 
a  very  touching  sight  to  see  the  old  man  of  ninety  years 
speaking  with  such  energy  and  enthusiasm,  that  he  not 

*  See  the  description  which  Monsieur  de  la  Borderie  has  given 
of  the  tomb. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  27 

only  convinced  his  audience,  but  drew  tears  from  their 
eyes.  This  is  how  he  should  have  been  represented  on 
the  tomb.  But  I  have  sought  for  him  in  vain,  and  I 
cannot  help  feeling  very  sorry  for  the  omission." 

I  give  the  above  conversation  word  for  word.  But 
alas  for  the  simple  subtle  charm  in  which  this  wizard 
clothed  his  every  utterance.  That  secret  he  has  carried 
with  him  to  his  grave. 

I  was  at  Treguier  on  Monday,  the  eighth  of  September, 
the  second  day  of  the  Triduum.  What  a  startling  contrast 
between  the  old  narrow  streets,  for  centuries  benumbed 
in  cloistral  slumber,  and  those  long,  winding,  gliding 
crowds,  seething  here  and  there  into  deep  whirling  eddies. 

But  I  must  confess  that  my  Breton  feelings  are 
always  a  little  shocked  by  the  very  popularity  of  these 
religious  festivals.  Here,  for  instance,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  effect  was  too  theatrical,  the  music  too  pro- 
fessional, there  were  too  many  sightseers,  too  many 
photographers.  There  is  a  certain  jealous  bashfulness 
about  our  race  that  shows  itself  whenever  her  innermost 
feelings  are  called  in  question,  as  they  are  by  these 
exquisite  antiquated  ceremonies  in  which  she  finds 
comfort  and  pleasure.  Under  a  brusque  exterior  she 
is  modest  and  refined  ;  ostentation  frightens  her. 

At  her  ordinary  pardons  you  will  scarcely  hear  any- 
thing but  the  muffled  sound  of  a  few  drums  and  the 
blowing  of  pastoral  pipes.  The  blare  of  brass  instru- 
ments disturbs  the  harmony  of  those  sweet,  solemn 
dreams  that  she  scarcely  dare  murmur  to  herself;  and 
knowing  this,  and  also  with  what  jealous  care  the 
country  of  Treguier  has  always  preserved  the  worship  of 
Saint  Yves,  I  was  shocked  and  distressed  at  all  this  noise. 


28  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

It  is  during  the  first  nights  of  May,  when,  according 
to  a  sweet  local  expression,  "  le  ciel  s'ouvre,  semble  planer 
de  plus  haut  sur  la  terre,"*  that  the  custom  is  to  betake 
oneself  by  the  dusky,  sweet-smelling,  hawthorn-bordered 
road  to  Minihy. 

After  supper  the  folks  begin  to  gather  in  groups  at 
the  foot  of  the  great  calvary  that  marks  the  beginning 
of  the  sacred  way.  It  is  at  one  and  the  same  time  an 
evening  walk  and  a  procession.  The  people  pace  slowly 
along  under  the  stars,  and  the  soft  air  is  full  of  balmy 
odours.  No  cross  is  borne  aloft ;  there  are  neither 
clergy  nor  choristers.  Silence  is  the  rule,  and  prayers 
are  breathed  forth  with  a  vague  murmuring  that  in  no 
way  disturbs  the  perfect  calm.  It  is  like  a  procession  of 
shadows  gliding  though  the  night.  The  aged  towns- 
women  in  their  delicious  old-fashioned  caps,  stifle  their 
least  footsteps  in  list  slippers,  hiding  their  hands  in  their 
broad  sleeves  after  the  manner  of  nuns.  In  all  the 
ditches  beggars  are  crouching,  one-armed  folks,  cripples, 
blind  people,  and  lepers,  many  of  them  waving  torches 
so  that  the  bright  red  glow  may  heighten  the  effect  of 
their  deformities.  And  all  the  while  they  clamour  for 
alms,  and  pass  the  tragic  story  of  their  woes  from  one 
to  another  with  a  curious  mixture  of  truth  and  exaggera- 
tion. Some  seem  to  have  their  knees  fixed  in  the  ground  ; 
so  motionless  they  are,  one  might  almost  take  them  for 
statues.  Others  are  standing  with  their  heads  thrown 
back,  so  that  the  starlight  is  reflected  on  their  white  and 
sightless  eyeballs.  Others  call  attention  to  a  large  family 
sleeping  round  them,  curly  cherubs  laid  away  in  the 
grass  of  the  ditch,  lighted  up  by  a  tallow  candle. 

*  "  Heaven  opening,  watcheth  the  earth  from  on  high." 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  29 

And  oh,  the  bursts  of  lamentation,  the  hoarse  voices 
of  the  old  men,  the  shrill  piping  of  the  women. 

"En  hand  Sant  Erwan  .  .  .  En  hand  Sant  Erwan  .  .  ."* 

Alms  come  pouring  in,  gradually  the  sound  dies 
away,  and  silence  again  grows  deep. 

During  the  whole  way  the  pilgrims  do  not  exchange 
a  single  word.  It  is  "  le  pardon  mut,"  the  silent  Pardon, 
one  of  the  most  usual  forms  of  Breton  devotion. 

Now  it  will  be  seen  at  once  that  a  people  who 
understand  piety  after  this  fashion  are  scarcely  likely  to 
appreciate  pompous  shows  which  cannot  be  otherwise 
than  rather  crowded  and  discordant. 

"  Ma  Doue,"  murmured  a  peasant  girl  from  Louannec 
who  stood  near  me  at  the  Triduum  at  Treguier,  "how 
can  one  pray  in  the  midst  of  all  this  noise  ?  " 

And  there  were  thousands  of  people  who  felt  as  she 
did.  But  pray  do  not  let  me  be  misunderstood.  I 
have  no  wish  to  condemn  these  great  fetes  altogether. 
The  majority  of  the  public  consider  them  quite  success- 
ful, and  certainly,  if  only  the  "  fireworks  "  were  left  out, 
some  portions  of  them  would  be  of  unquestionable 
beauty.  Such  among  others,  is  that  vigil  of  the  faithful 
held  in  the  cathedral  during  the  night  between  Monday 
and  Tuesday. 

When  I  went  into  the  church  it  was  already  late.  In 
spite  of  the  fresh  night  breeze  and  the  air  that  entered 
by  the  open  doors,  one  was  conscious  of  a  faint  warmth, 
the  heavy  breath  of  the  multitude  that  lay  there  half 
asleep  in  attitudes  expressive  of  dull  weariness.  In 
the  dim  uncertain  light  of  a  few  candles  the  great 
pillars  rose,  damp  and  green,  like  the  trunks  of  giant  trees 
*  "  In  the  name  of  Saint  Yves." 


30  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

waving  mysterious  shadowy  branches,  high  up  beneath 
the  vaulting,  and  a  scattered  prayer,  continuous,  mono- 
tonous, roamed  through  the  silence,  rising  and  falling 
like  the  humming  of  bees.  Did  it  come  from  those 
hundreds  of  weary  lips,  or  from  those  of  the  old  stone 
bishops,  who  lay  with  joined  hands  under  the  low 
arches  in  the  wall  ? 

And  among  all  the  confused,  whispering  darkness 
was  one  bright  spot — the  tomb,  a  white  bier  lit  by  a 
forest  of  glittering  candles. 

There,  white  also,  with  the  sparkling  whiteness  of 
marble,  lay  the  dead  figure  of  Saint  Yves.  Along  the 
grille  which  surrounds  the  monument,  there  was  a  per- 
petual gliding  of  ghostly  shadows  moving  to  a  sound  of 
prayers  and  bead-telling. 

Suddenly  there  arose  a  single  voice,  a  man's  voice 
large  and  full,  singing  to  the  tune  of  an  old  war-song,  a 
hymn  in  praise  of  the  saint. 

*'  N'hen  eus  ket  en  Breiz,  n'hen  eus  ket  unan, 
N'hen  eus  ket  eur  Zant  evel  sant  Erwan.  .  .  ."* 

It  had  the  effect  of  a  bugle  call  on  a  courtyard  full 
of  soldiers.  A  great  thrill  shook  the  crowd.  Even  the 
sleepiest  sprang  up,  and  a  mighty  choir  began  to  repeat 
each  verse  after  the  singer.  It  was  a  wild  distracting 
clamour,  with  which  the  very  cathedral  itself  seemed  to 
vibrate.  Even  the  candles  woke  up  and  burned  with 
a  clearer  light. 

*  "  There  is  not  in  Bretagne,  there  is  not  one. 

There  is  not  a  saint  like  our  Saint  Erwan.  .  .  ." 

Canon  Le  Pon. 


SAINT   WES   OK   KKKMARTIN 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  31 

Then  the  voices  went  out,  all  slumbered  once  more, 
and  there  at  the  end  of  the  nave  lay  the  white  corpse 
of  Saint  Yves,  watched  over  by  a  crowd  of  his  poor 
worshippers. 

Next  day,  in  a  blaze  of  sunlight,  at  the  conclusion  of 
High  Mass,  the  processions  began  pouring  out  of  the 
porch.  Twenty  parishes  were  there,  headed  by  their 
clergy,  all  the  Breton  bishops,  the  successors  of  Saint 
Pol,  Saint  Brieuk,  Saint  Tugdual,  and  all  the  cowls  of 
the  old  monkish  city,  coifs  bent  low  over  the  faces,  eyes 
faded  and  furtive.  And  the  bells  began  pealing,  not 
only  those  of  the  cathedral  and  of  the  neighbouring 
convents,  but  the  bells  of  all  the  surrounding  villages, 
Plouguiel,  Minihy,  Tredarzec,  Kerborz,  till  the  sound  of 
their  great  voices  rolled  and  echoed  on  high,  like  the 
booming  swell  of  a  mighty  ocean. 

Then  the  march  began.  Between  two  ranks  of  flags 
the  gorgeously  embroidered  banners  of  the  various 
parishes  were  borne  aloft,  swinging  on  staves,  solid  as 
masts.  Some  were  new  and  glittering,  others  more 
venerable  displayed  their  tarnished  gold  and  dull  em- 
broideries with  a  certain  pride. 

On  the  greater  number,  worked  in  high  relief, 
appeared  the  heavy  figures  of  the  saints  of  Tregor ; 
one  could  almost  read  their  names  as  they  went  by, 
Tr6meur,  Tryphine,  Coupaia,  Bergat,  Sezni,  Guennole, 
Gonery,  Liboubane,  a  whole  barbarous  litany  of  them, 
which  the  foreigners,  gathered  amateur-like  from  the 
neighbouring  seaside  resorts,  tried  in  vain  to  pronounce. 

Immediately  before  the  skull  of  Yves  Heloury, 
enclosed  in  its  magnificent  reliquary,  walked  six  pages 
dressed  in  yellow  and  black,  the  colours  of  the  saint. 


32  THE   LAND    OF   TARDONS 

bearing  on  their  breasts  the  arms  of  Kervarzin,  four 
blackbirds  on  a  field  of  gold.  Behind  walked  the  pre- 
lates, the  priests,  and  then  followed  the  crowd,  still 
singing  to  that  old  battle-song,  the  "  Canticle  of  Sant 
Erwan."     And  it  was  certainly  very  magnificent. 

In  this  imposing  fashion  they  passed  through  all  the 
streets  of  Tr^guier.  But  to  the  great  surprise  of  the 
faithful,  they  did  not  go  to  Minihy,  they  did  not,  that 
is  to  say,  pay  their  homage  to  Saint  Yves  in  his  own 
home. 

I  like  to  think  that  this  was  out  of  respect  for  certain 
prejudices,  which  the  Bretons  express  by  saying — 

*'  To  each  saint  his  own  pardon." 


THK   PROCESSIOX   OF   SAINT    VVKS 

SnEUIN(;   Till'.   .S.KULI.    IN    ITS    KEI.IQUAKV 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE   POOR  33 


CHAPTER  V 

BUT  after  all  there  is  only  one  festival  which  can 
truly  be  called  the  Pardon  of  Saint  Yves  ;  it  is 
that  which  is  celebrated  at  Minihy  on  the  nineteenth 
of  May. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  going  to  speak  we  were 
living  at  Penvenan,  a  big,  dull  town  on  a  bare  plain 
that  lies  between  the  Guindy  and  the  sea.  High  gorse- 
covered  banks  run  over  it  in  every  direction,  cutting  it 
up  into  fields  and  meadows,  so  that  in  spring  it  is  like  a 
cobweb  of  golden  threads. 

It  is  a  huge  parish,  and  in  the  interior  the  labourers 
are  quite  comfortably  off,  growing  wheat,  and  rearing 
flocks  and  herds.  Some  few  of  them  are  really  rich, 
and  live  in  roomy  farms  built  of  hewn  stone  like  manor- 
houses. 

But  it  is  quite  otherwise  with  the  poor  fishing  clans 
scattered  along  the  coast.  In  their  villages,  comfort  is 
almost  unknown.  The  men  are  away  for  five  or  six 
months  of  the  year,  toiling  among  the  difficult  and 
dangerous  fisheries  of  Iceland  and  Newfoundland  ;  and 
many  never  come  back.  Then  their  families,  falling 
into  distress,  go  to  swell  the  ranks  of  the  chercheiirs  de 
pain.  Now  it  is  well  known  that  in  Brittany,  begging, 
far  from  being  considered  a  disgrace,  is  almost  looked 
upon  as  an  honourable  occupation.     The  poor,  like  the 

D 


34  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

witless,  are  regarded  as  sacred  beings  ;  whoever  fails  to 
show  them  respect  runs  the  risk  of  eternal  dan:ination. 
So  every  one  treats  them  with  the  greatest  consideration, 
and  they  have  their  bowl  on  the  dresser,  their  mattress 
in  the  barn  or  the  stable.  In  the  district  of  Treguier 
they  form  a  regular  society,  and  proudly  style  themselves 
the  "  clients  of  Saint  Yves." 

When  his  festival  draws  near,  these  ragged,  infirm 
creatures  deck  themselves  out  in  their  tatters,  and  off 
they  gaily  start  on  their  crutches. 

"  This  is  our  Pardon,"  they  say,  "  Pardon  ar  bewien, 
the  Pardon  of  the  Poor." 

How  I  wish  that  in  a  few  lines  I  could  picture  to 
you  the  face  of  one  of  these  clients  of  the  saint,  perhaps 
the  honestest  man  whom  I  have  ever  known.  He  was 
called  simply  Baptiste,  as  though  he  had  never  borne 
any  other  name.  He  lived  on  the  road  to  Lannion,  in 
a  hut  of  which  only  the  roof  and  the  walls  were  wanting. 
The  rain  and  the  snow  had  free  entry,  and  the  wind 
had  established  itself  there  as  though  quite  at  home. 
Friendless  cats  swarmed  in  the  far  corners,  and  numbers 
of  other  beasts  besides.  If  one  joked  Baptiste  about 
them,  he  would  answer  philosophically — 

"  Duman  e  ty  an  homm."  ("  My  house  is  everybody's 
home.") 

He  had  very  strict  notions  about  hospitality,  had 
Baptiste,  but  was  somewhat  of  a  cynic,  professing  a 
serene  indifference  for  externals,  and  only  valuing 
matters  that  concerned  the  soul.  He  was,  however,  ex- 
tremely fond  of  his  pipe,  and  his  face  lengthened  when 
he  had  nothing  to  smoke.  Nor  did  a  little  glass  of 
brandy  now  and  then  come  amiss  to  him,  but  that  was 


.  < 

C  t 

^  i 

c/;  < 


THE   PARDON   OF   THE   POOR  35 

all ;  no  other  passion  troubled  his  simple  heart ;  he 
went  into  his  grave  as  pure  as  he  had  come  out  of  his 
childish  cradle.  He  died  on  the  eve  of  his  eightieth  year, 
one  frosty  night,  with  no  witness,  without  a  cry,  "closing 
his  own  eyes,"  to  use  the  expression  of  the  neighbour 
who  found  him  dead.  When  they  took  off  his  clothes, 
they  found  in  his  pockets,  beside  his  pipe  and  tobacco- 
pouch,  an  ancient  scrap  of  a  letter  that  no  one  was  able 
to  decipher,  and  on  his  thin,  hairy  breast  a  scapulary. 
Some  few  days  earlier  he  had  accosted  my  father  in  the 
street. 

"  I  am  looking  to  you  to  lend  me  a  sheet,  when  the 
time  comes  to  bury  me,"  said  he. 

He  did  not  in  the  least  doubt  being  able  to  return 
it  in  the  other  world.  Thus  the  Celts  of  old  time  looked 
beyond  the  term  of  this  life.  Baptiste  differed,  however, 
in  some  ways  from  others  of  his  poor  brethren.  Not 
only  did  he  never  ask  alms,  but  he  refused  them  with  an 
ill-disguised  anger,  however  delicately  offered.  About 
this  he  was  absolutely  inflexible.  He  professed  to 
believe  that  unearned  bread  choked  those  who  ate  it. 
Often  when  I  came  down  in  the  morning,  I  would  find 
him  installed  by  the  kitchen  fire  smoking.  He  had  an 
inborn  refinement,  and  always  made  a  pretext  of  lighting 
his  pipe  or  of  telling  some  piece  of  news  to  get  into 
one's  house,  nor  would  he  come  at  all  unless  in  entire 
sympathy  with  his  hosts.  He  loved  me  for  just  those 
things  which  I  loved,  for  all  that  Breton  past  of  which 
even  then  I  was  a  student.  As  to  my  parents,  in  his 
whole  acquaintance  he  knew  no  one  to  compare  to  them, 
and  in  that  he  was  certainly  right,  good  man.  I  would 
go  up  to  him  and  we  would  shake  hands  and  begin  to 


36  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

talk  ;  then  my  mother  would  come  in  and  ask  him  to 
stay  to  breakfast,  "  without  ceremony." 

"  If  you  have  any  work  for  me  to  do,  yes,  certainly. 
If  not,  you  know  it  must  be  no." 

Of  course  there  always  was  some  work  in  reserve  for 
Baptiste,  preferably  that  which  required  a  good  deal  of 
strength,  such  as  moving  rubbish-heaps  or  cleaving 
wood.  He  did  it  all  with  a  charming  inexpertness, 
poor  old  fellow,  but  he  was  a  gentle  soul,  prone  to 
delusion  ;  he  would  persuade  himself  quite  honestly  that 
he  had  performed  marvels,  and  always  measured  the 
quality  of  his  work  by  the  perspiration  which  trickled 
down  his  hollow  cheeks. 

"You  are  tiring  yourself  too  much,  Baptiste,"  my 
mother  would  say  to  him  ;  "  we  shall  kill  you  ten  years 
before  your  time  by  all  this  work."  And  the  compli- 
ment always  touched  him  to  the  quick,  so  that  he 
beamed  again.  We  used  to  make  him  sit  down  at  table 
in  the  midst  of  us,  as  is  the  custom  in  old  Breton 
homes.  He  was  usually  very  hungry,  for  he  did  not 
taste  even  bread  every  day,  and  yet  we  had  to  press 
him  to  eat.  Many  times  without  his  knowledge  have 
we  filled  his  pockets.  His  talk  was  always  most  in- 
teresting ;  he  had  watched  so  many  people  live  and 
seen  so  many  things  happen.  Accumulated  treasures  of 
popular  knowledge  rolled  about  anyhow  in  his  memory 
like  the  shingle  on  the  seashore  at  the  time  of  the  rising 
of  the  tide,  and,  like  a  gatherer  of  wreckage,  I  always 
sought  eagerly  in  the  heap. 

One  evening  he  appeared  on  our  doorstep  decently 
dressed  in  almost  clean  rags. 

"Would  you  like  to  take  part  in  the  Pardon  of  the 


THE   PARDON   OF   THE   POOR  '57 

Poor  ? "  he  asked  me,  "  they  are  expecting  me  at  the 
house  of  the  farmer  of  Saint  Yves,  my  friend  Yaouank, 
who  is  under  certain  obligations  to  me." 

It  was  quite  a  godsend  to  me,  and  I  hastened  to 
accept  his  invitation.  During  the  course  of  the  after- 
noon, I  had  several  times  noticed  that  the  town  was 
more  lively  than  usual.  From  all  the  little  sandy 
roads  flocked  troops  of  beggars — men,  women,  children. 
They  crossed  the  square  without  stopping,  without  even 
casting  a  glance  at  the  house  doors,  then  turned  off  on 
the  road  to  Treguier,  where  they  disappeared  between 
the  hedges  of  fresh  green  broom.  We  took  the  same 
direction.  It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock.  Behind  us,  on 
the  Perros  side,  the  sun  in  his  setting  looked  like  the 
mouth  of  a  furnace.  Over  our  heads  little  fleecy  clouds, 
white  as  fresh-washed  wool,  hung  motionless,  drowsing 
in  the  depths  of  the  sky.  Although  his  legs  were  bent 
beneath  the  weight  of  age,  Baptiste  walked  at  a  brisk 
pace.     As  I  observed  this  to  him — 

"  Whoever  is  born  poor  ought  to  have  good  feet,"  he 
answered  in  the  sententious  way  habitual  to  him.  "  It 
is  not  for  nothing  that  people  of  my  sort  are  called 
baleer-bro,  trampers.  Bread  does  not  come  to  us  of  its 
own  accord  ;  needs  must  that  we  go  to  find  it,  and  it  is 
a  trade  that  wants  legs,  or  crutches,"  he  added,  pointing 
to  a  cripple  shuffling  along,  a  little  before  us,  between 
his  two  wooden  supports.  Baptiste  continued :  "  The 
books  have  no  doubt  told  you  what  a  walker  Saint  Yves 
our  patron  was  .? " 

"Oh,  the  books  say  nothing  about  these  things, 
gaffer ;  tell  me  about  it  yourself" 

"  What  do  they  talk  about  then,  these  books  ?     Well, 


38  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

at  all  events,  look  you  here.  When  Yves  was  old  enough 
to  go  to  school,  his  parents  found  themselves  in  a 
difficulty,  for  at  that  time,  in  the  whole  country  of 
Tr^gor,  there  was  only  one  master  worthy  to  teach  him. 
He  was  learned  enough,  but  lived  at  Yvias,  away  down 
there  at  the  lower  end  of  the  Goelo,  eight  leagues  away 
from  Minihy.  Azou  de  Quinquiz  was  only  willing  to 
send  her  son  to  school  on  condition  that  he  took  all  his 
meals  in  the  midst  of  his  own  people,  and  came  home 
to  sleep  every  evening  ;  for  the  idea  of  being  separated 
entirely  from  him  was  unbearable  to  her ;  yet  on  the 
other  hand,  it  was  necessary  that  he  should  be  taught 
as  quickly  as  possible  in  order  to  become  a  great  saint. 
Now  Yves  noticed  that  his  mother  had  long  hours  of 
sadness ;  so  presently  he  asked  her  the  cause  of  her 
grief. 

" '  You  mean  to  say  that  that  is  all  ? '  he  cried. 
*  Pack  me  up  my  ABC  and  my  Catechism  ;  to-morrow 
morning  at  daybreak  I  shall  start  for  Yvias,  and  don't 
trouble  yourself,  before  twelve  o'clock  I  shall  be  back 
again.' 

"  They  let  him  have  his  way,  and  he  started  off  for 
Yvias,  carrying  his  little  packet  of  books  tied  together 
by  a  cord,  on  his  shoulder.  When  the  other  scholars 
arrived  he  was  already  in  his  place  on  the  form.  There 
he  remained  without  stirring,  very  attentive,  very  diligent, 
till  nearly  half-past  eleven.     Then  he  rose. 

" '  What  is  the  matter  ? '  asked  the  master. 

"  '  It  is  time  that  I  went  home.  I  hear  the  footstep 
of  the  sacristan  of  Minihy  going  up  the  tower  stairs  to 
ring  the  Angelus.' 

"  *  Oh,  but  that  is  impossible.' 


THE  PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  89 

"  *  Put  your  foot  upon  mine,  and  you  will  hear  as  I 
do.' 

*' The  twelve  o'clock  Angelus  had  not  finished  sound- 
ing when  the  young  saint  was  back  beside  his  mother 
in  the  great  hall  of  Kervarzin.  This,  they  say,  was  his 
first  miracle,  and  for  two  years  he  repeated  it  twice 
every  day." 


40  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 


CHAPTER  VI 

NEITHER  Baptiste  nor  I  had  the  invisible  wings  of 
Yves  H^loury.  Twilight  had  begun  to  fall,  and 
still  we  had  to  climb  the  rise  which  enables  one  to  join 
the  Minihy  road  without  passing  through  the  town.  We 
scarcely  spoke  now,  for  the  shadows  invited  to  silence,  and 
little  by  little  there  stole  over  me  the  vague  melancholy 
which  fills  one's  heart  at  the  grey  approach  of  evening, 
that  mysterious  foreshadowing  of  the  twilight  of  life's 
day.  Suddenly,  as  we  emerged  from  a  gap,  the  outline 
of  a  high,  solitary  belfry,  bereft  of  its  church,  stood  out 
against  the  sun,  casting  a  shadow  almost  to  our  feet. 
It  was  the  tower  of  Saint  Michel,  Naturally,  we  expected 
to  find  it  there,  standing  upon  this  sharp  backbone  of 
land,  in  its  ruin-scattered  enclosure.  But  the  apparition 
of  the  stone  phantom  was  so  sudden  that  it  impressed 
us  as  a  bad  omen,  and  involuntarily  we  quickened  our 
steps.  A  few  crows,  perched  in  the  holes  of  the  spire, 
croaked  recall  to  the  laggards  of  the  flock,  waving 
long  black  wings,  which  appeared  enormous  in  the 
uncertain  light. 

"  Let  us  make  haste !  let  us  make  haste ! "  murmured 
Baptiste,  and  as  soon  as  we  were  out  of  sight  of  the 
ghostly  tower,  he  took  the  opportunity  to  tell  me  its 
legend. 

"  It  all  happened  a   few  years  after   the    death  of 


THK   TOWER   OK    SAINT   MICHEL 


THE   PARDON  OF  THE  POOR  41 

Yves  Heloury.  Already  the  poor,  his  proteges,  had 
turned  his  native  town  into  a  place  of  pilgrimage. 
They  came  there  just  as  they  do  to-day,  from  all  parts, 
with  the  greatest  devotion,  those  who  lived  on  the 
seashore  being  of  course  obliged  to  pass  over  the  lands 
of  Saint  Michel  in  order  to  reach  the  village.  But 
Saint  Michel's  was  at  this  time  a  resort  of  the  rich. 
Almost  every  gentleman  in  Treguier  had  a  country 
house  there,  where  he  lived  with  his  family  during  the 
fine  weather,  from  April  to  the  beginning  of  October. 
In  order  that  the  ladies  should  have  the  Mass  close  at 
hand,  these  gentlemen  had  raised  at  their  common  cost, 
a  magnificent  church,  which,  built  on  a  height,  overlooked 
the  belfries  all  round,  including  that  of  the  cathedral 
itself,  to  which  they  say  it  was  not  inferior  in  splendour. 
As  to  the  clergy,  it  had  been  stipulated  that  they  should 
all  be  of  good  blood.  In  short,  only  gentlemen  lived  in 
this  territory.  They  led  a  merry  life  there.  Every 
day  that  God  made  there  were  hunting  parties,  sound- 
ings of  horns,  banquetings,  drinkings,  feasts  and  carou- 
sels. You  can  fancy  that  these  people  had  no  attention 
to  give  to  Saint  Yves  and  his  poor.  When  they  saw 
the  beggars  come  through  their  thickets  and  fields,  they 
were  roused  to  indignation. 

"'Are  we  to  allow  these  people,  in  their  tattered 
clothes,  to  disturb  our  pleasure  by  the  walking  spectacle 
of  their  misery  ? '  they  said. 

"  So  counsel  was  taken,  and,  a  short  time  after,  criers 
were  sent  through  all  the  parishes  around  to  proclaim 
that  the  twenty  or  thirty  estates,  situated  in  Saint 
Michel's,  would  henceforward  be  endowed  with  a  right 
of  toll,  and  that  it  would  take  the  form  of  a  gold  piece 


42  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

for  each  person  passing  through  the  land.  In  default 
of  payment,  the  delinquent  would  undergo  such  punish- 
ment as  it  should  please  the  gentlemen  to  inflict  upon 
him.  To  ask  a  beggar  for  a  gold  piece  !  You  see  the 
humour  of  it  ?  The  gentlemen  themselves  roared  with 
laughter  at  the  device.  But  there  is  a  proverb,  you 
know,  that  says,  '  He  laughs  best  who  laughs  longest,' 
and  these  people  of  Saint  Michel  had  experience  of 
that,  for  the  joke  cost  them  dear.* 

"  For  one  year,  for  two  years,  all  went  well,  the  edict 
succeeded.  All  the  poor  people  made  a  large  detour, 
and  gave  the  place  a  wide  berth.  No  doubt  Saint  Yves 
was  not  particularly  pleased  with  this  way  of  treating 
his  people,  but  he  waited  till  the  proper  moment  came 
for  manifesting  his  just  anger.  At  last  an  occasion  pre- 
sented itself.  One  day  a  miserable  blind  man  wandered 
into  the  forbidden  precincts.  The  guard  seized  him 
and  led  him  before  the  assembled  noblemen. 

"  '  A-ha,'  they  cried,  '  so  we  have  caught  one,  have 
we  ?     And  where  wast  thou  going,  beggar  ? ' 

"  '  To  Saint  Yves,  worthy  masters  ;  may  his  blessing 
rest  upon  you.* 

"'Thou  hast  been  caught  trespassing  on  our  land, 
thou  must  pay  the  fine.' 

"  By  way  of  answer,  the  blind  man  turned  his  tattered 
pockets  inside  out,  and  nothing  but  a  few  crumbs  of 
black  bread  appeared.  Then  the  gentlemen  made  a 
sign  to  the  guards,  and  the  next  instant  they  had 
hoisted  the  poor  man  up  the  clock  tower,  and   made 

*  It  is  a  curious  fact,  that  in  all  Brittany,  Saint  Michel's  is 
the  only  parish  where  I  have  noticed  a  proclamation  against 
begging.— (F.  M.  G.) 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  43 

him  fast  to  the  iron  arms  of  the  cross  at  the  summit  of 
the  steeple. 

" '  Pray  Saint  Yves  to  give  you  back  your  sight/  cried 
his  tormenters,  'for  you  have  the  best  position  in  the 
world  from  which  to  see  his  Pardon.' 

"  Scarcely  had  they  finished  speaking,  when  the  sky 
became  black  as  ink.  A  thick  darkness  fell  over  all  the 
land  as  on  the  day  when  the  Christ  died,  and  from  the 
belly  of  the  clouds  darted  forth  fiery  serpents.  In 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  church,  manors,  woods,  fields, 
all  were  destroyed,  burnt  up,  reduced  to  cinders.  Only 
the  steeple,  on  which  hung  the  martyred  body  of  the  old 
man,  was  spared.  With  regard  to  him,  some  even  say 
that  invisible  hands  unfastened  his  bonds,  and  that  he 
found  himself,  he  knew  not  how,  walking  safe  and  sound 
to  Minihy.  As  to  the  gentlemen  of  Saint  Michel,  there 
remains  not  a  trace  of  them  unless  it  be  their  souls, 
which,  turned  into  crows,  are  condemned  to  fly  ominously 
round  the  tower  until  the  judgment  day. 

"  Done  da  bardono  d'an  Anaon.  God's  pardon  on  the 
dead,"  concluded  Baptiste,  crossing  himself  on  his  fore- 
head, his  lips,  and  his  breast. 

By  this  time  we  were  entering  Minihy.  The  end  of 
the  one  street  looks  out  over  a  stretch  of  country,  sink- 
ing in  a  gentle  slope  towards  the  flowery  banks  of  the 
Jaudy,  and  beneath  the  calm  night  sky  the  waters  of  the 
river  shone  below  us  with  a  cold  gleam.  Before  passing 
the  churchyard,  where  pilgrims  were  walking  silently 
round  and  round  among  the  tombs,  we  paused,  and  our 
sight  plunged  through  the  arch  of  the  porch  into  the 
church  itself,  following  an  avenue  of  candles,  which  went 
shining  and  narrowing  down  towards  the  altar. 


44  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

It  was  very  dark  where  we  stood.  Heavy  foHaged 
trees,  chestnuts  perhaps,  formed  a  vault  above  us,  and 
the  branches  descended  to  the  embankments  that 
bordered  the  road,  so  that  we  groped  our  way  along 
as  through  an  underground  passage.  Suddenly  the 
barking  of  dogs,  a  great  sound  of  voices,  and  the  bright 
shining  of  a  blaze  of  brushwood.  We  were  crossing 
the  sill  of  the  manor  of  Kervarzin. 

"Is  there  room  for  two  more,  if  you  please  ? "  cried 
Baptiste,  in  a  cheerful  voice. 

The  huge  kitchen  was  already  full  of  beggars,  some 
leaning  against  the  wooden  half-partition,  that  in  Breton 
farms  shelters  the  hearth  from  the  draught  of  the  door, 
others  crouching  about  on  the  hard  earthen  floor,  or 
sitting  knees  to  chin  on  the  little  bench  that  ran  from 
end  to  end  of  the  room. 

At  Baptiste's  words  a  jovial  old  peasant,  with  curly 
grey  hair,  rose  from  the  chimney-corner,  and  came 
toward  us. 

"  Have  you  ever  heard  of  a  poor  person  being 
sent  away  from  Kervarzin  on  the  eve  of  the  Pardon  of 
the  blessed  Saint  Yves  ? "  he  asked,  smiling  gravely, 
without  removing  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  and  pressing 
the  hand  that  Baptiste  held  out  to  him  ;  "  and  it  is  not 
only  the  poor  who  are  welcome  at  my  house,"  he  con- 
tinued, when  my  conductor  had  introduced  me,  and  I  in 
turn  had  held  out  my  hand.  "Your  father  may  possibly 
have  told  you  that  at  the  house  of  Yaouank-coz  there 
is  always  hot  soup  and  crepes,  with  a  free  glass  of  cider 
for  friends." 

He  had  the  manners  of  a  gentleman,  this  peasant ; 
and  I  was  obliged   to  accept  his  oak  armchair  at  the 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  45 

angle  of  the  hearth.  Ah  !  how  pleasant  it  was  there, 
before  the  clear  flame  that  rose  and  rose,  lighting  up  all 
the  kitchen,  painting  with  its  red  glow  the  polished  doors 
of  cupboards,  transfiguring  the  faces  of  the  beggars, 
wakening  the  joy  of  life  in  their  faded  features  and 
lifeless  eyes. 

From  the  hook  of  the  chimney-chain  hung  an 
enormous  pot,  from  which,  as  the  servant  raised  the 
lid,  clouds  of  steam  came  pouring,  and  a  rich  smell 
of  bacon  filled  the  air.  The  table  was  covered  with 
bowls,  which  a  man  had  just  filled  with  crepes  of  black 
corn  that  he  wrung  asunder  in  his  hands. 

*'  Come,  boys,"  cried  Father  Yaouank,  "  the  soup  is 
quite  ready." 

How  can  I  ever  picture  to  you  the  indescribable 
scene  that  followed  ?  It  threw  one  right  back  into  the 
Middle  Ages,  to  some  Cour  des  miracles.  To  the  com- 
parative silence  which  until  now  had  reigned  among  these 
people,  tired  out  for  the  most  part  as  they  were,  and 
glad  to  let  themselves  drowse  in  the  warm  comfort  of  a 
well-to-do  house,  a  tumult  succeeded ;  a  scuffling  and 
hustling,  accompanied  by  cries,  oaths  even,  and  blows  ; 
everybody  struggling  at  the  same  time  to  reach  the 
table,  each  one  anxious  to  be  first  to  get  hold  of  his 
bowl.  The  lame,  especially,  made  a  tremendous  com- 
motion, prodding  among  the  legs  of  the  able-bodied 
with  their  crutches,  while  a  one-armed  man,  half-crushed, 
bellowed  despairingly,  waving  aloft  a  huge  arm,  finished 
off  by  an  immense  hand.  The  blind  stumbled  about, 
stretching  their  arms  out  before  them,  rolling  their  sight- 
less eyeballs,  and  from  the  hearth  Yaouank-coz  watched 
them,  his  pipe  in  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  quietly  amused. 


46  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

"  Now  then ;  one  after  another,"  he  commanded, 
barring  the  way  to  the  fireplace  with  his  great  body ; 
"  whoever  makes  any  disturbance  comes  last." 

Then  a  calm  succeeded.  The  procession  of  the  pot 
began.  The  beggars  approached  one  by  one,  presenting 
their  crepe-filled  bowls,  which  the  servant  girl  filled  up 
with  soup. 

By  the  light  of  the  fire  I  watched  it  all,  and  oh,  the 
strange  heads  that  I  saw  there !  Fat,  some  of  them 
bloated,  with  purple  bruises,  looking  for  all  the  world 
like  water-melons.  Others  thin,  with  an  ascetic  thin- 
nesS;  frozen  faces  of  dead  men  ;  all  the  life  gone  back 
into  the  feverish,  restless  eyes.  Others  hard  and  worn, 
with  the  energetic  profiles  of  pirates,  and  some  quite 
exquisite,  too,  I  mean  among  the  women,  with  a  divine 
sadness  of  expression,  a  delicate,  suffering  pallor. 

I  remember  one  in  particular,  a  pure  type  of  the 
Madonna,  mystical  grace  spread  over  her  refined  features, 
and  inexpressible  sweetness  ruled  her  bearing.  One 
would  have  thought  her  no  creature  of  flesh  and  blood. 
Her  naked  feet,  bronzed  with  the  sun  of  the  high-roads, 
scarcely  seemed  to  touch  the  ground.  She  had  long 
eyelids  and  very  long  lashes,  but  when  she  passed  near 
to  me  I  saw  on  her  neck  the  traces  of  scrofula.  I  asked 
her  name  of  Baptiste. 

"  She  comes  from  Pleumeur,"  said  he  ;  "  she  is  an 
innocent.  They  say  that  she  has  the  falling  sickness,  and 
that  for  six  months  of  the  year  her  body  is  all  one  wound." 

Soon  nothing  could  be  heard  but  the  noise  of  wooden 
spoons  scraping  the  bottoms  of  bowls ;  the  soup  had 
been  swallowed  in  a  few  gulps. 

The    master   of  the   house,  the  Penn-tiegez,  knelt 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  47 

up  on  the  hearthstone  and  began  to  repeat  the  evening 
prayer.  The  beggars  made  the  responses  in  a  con- 
fused, stammering  way,  their  voices  sleepy  and  purring. 
Opposite  me,  on  the  other  side  of  the  hearth,  stood  a 
cupboard  bed,  its  narrow  opening  looking  like  a  window 
with  little  flowered  chintz  curtains.  There,  it  is  said, 
Saint  Yves  had  his  straw  mattress  and  pillow  of  granite 
during  the  latter  part  of  his  short  life,  when  he  was 
Governor  of  Treguier,  with  residence  at  Kervarzin,  his 
family  seat. 

Lulled  by  the  humming  of  the  Breton  prayers,  my 
dreams  went  back  to  another  evening  in  the  year  1292, 
when,  perhaps  at  that  very  hour,  the  good  saint,  on  the 
point  of  falling  asleep,  thought  he  heard  some  one 
knocking  at  the  door.  He  was  not  at  all  surprised,  for 
his  house,  was  it  not  an  inn,  at  the  service  of  all  penni- 
less, homeless  souls  ?  It  never  occurred  to  him  to  call 
his  old  servant  who  had  already  gone  to  rest.  No,  he 
rose  himself,  and,  barefoot,  went  to  draw  back  the  bolt 
(is  it  certain,  indeed,  that  he  had  a  bolt .?).  As  the  door 
opened  a  blast  of  wind  came  in,  a  blast  of  bitter 
wind,  laden  with  rain,  and  the  sad  voices  of  a  row  of 
poor  creatures,  crouching  upon  the  doorstep,  shivering 
piteously. 

"  Quick,  quick  !  my  children,  I  am  just  going  to  re- 
light the  fire  ;  so  come  in,  I  have  been  waiting  for  you." 

Yes,  indeed,  for  he  was  always  waiting  for  such  as 
they.  Whence  did  they  come  7  Who  were  they  ? 
How  many  were  there?  What  did  that  matter  to 
him  ?  I  seem  to  see  him  kneeling  down  upon  the 
same  stone  where  Father  Yaouank  has  just  knelt, 
murmuring   the   evening  prayer.      He  blows   the   fire, 


48  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

which  has  almost  gone  out,  even  as  the  servant  girl  was 
doing  a  while  since,  and  like  her  throws  on  armfuls  of 
dry  gorse,  that  flames  bright  and  clear.  The  poor 
people  come  forward.  They  seat  themselves  in  the  arm- 
chairs at  either  corner  of  the  hearth,  and  their  rags 
steam  in  the  gentle  heat,  while  their  faces,  wet  with  rain 
and  blue  with  the  cold,  brighten  and  shine,  as  their  eyes 
say  plainly  to  each  other — 

"  How  pleasant  it  is  here  in  this  good  man's  home." 

Yves  has  gone  to  the  larder,  and  has  fetched  a  loaf 
of  white  bread,  the  remains  of  some  pork,  and  a  piece  of 
salt  beef.  He  sets  it  all  before  the  beggars,  that  they 
may  refresh  themselves. 

"  Eat  heartily,  my  friends,"  says  he  ;  "  eat  as  much 
as  ever  you  want." 

When  the  bread,  the  pork,  and  the  beef  have  dis- 
appeared, the  chief  of  this  wandering  tribe,  a  tall  rogue 
with  copper-coloured  skin,  like  that  of  a  gipsy,  wipes 
his  mouth  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  and  begins  holding 
forth  to  the  saint. 

"  Oh,  most  revered  and  wisest  of  hosts,"  he  says,  "  I 
should  be  the  ungratefulest  of  beggars,  if,  having 
received  all  this  kindness  from  you,  I  did  not  make 
our  circumstances  known  to  you.  Possibly  when  you 
hear  who  we  are,  you  will  cast  us  forth  into  the  night 
and  the  cruel  rain.  Well,  at  all  events,  your  goodness 
shall  not  be  abused.  My  name  is  Riwallon  ;  I  am  a 
native  of  Priziac,  on  the  borders  of  Cornouailles  and 
Vannes.  As  for  my  trade,  I  am  a  conjurer,  and  I  excel 
in  making  love-ditties  and  war-songs.  In  all  the 
countryside  I  have  not  my  equal  as  a  teller  of  the  lives 
of  heroes  and  the  miraculous  legends  of  saints. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  49 

"  This  is  my  wife,  Panthoarda,  the  devoted  com- 
panion of  my  long  wretchedness.  She  plays  the  viol 
and  tells  fortunes  ;  moreover  she  knows  the  virtues  of 
herbs  and  the  art  of  curing  by  prayer  ;  she  can  also  dis- 
tinguish between  the  three  hundred  kinds  of  boils  and 
tell  which  sacred  fountain  can  cure  each. 

"  These  are  my  two  sons,  one  plays  the  bagpipes, 
the  other  the  clarionet.  They  have  powerful  lungs  and 
nimble  fingers. 

"  As  to  these  two  young  girls,  my  daughters " 

But  here  Yves  interrupts  the  conjurer.  He  has 
noticed  that  they  are  pretty,  these  two  young  girls, 
prettier  perhaps  than  befits  their  poverty,  and  he  has 
seen  a  blush  beginning  to  mount  into  their  pale  cheeks. 

"  Come,  come,  my  good  man,"  he  exclaims,  "  spare 
us  all  these  details  for  this  evening.  Your  wife  and 
your  children  are  half  asleep.  Even  you  yourself  must 
be  tired.  May  God's  peace  be  with  you  in  your 
slumbers.  All  that  you  need  to  know  from  me  is,  that 
this  house  is  your  home  as  long  as  you  choose  to  make 
it  such." 

We  know  that  they  chose  to  do  so  for  a  long  time, 
for  eleven  years  later,  that  is  to  say,  in  1303,  at  the  time 
of  the  saint's  death,  they  were  still  there. 


50  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  evening  prayer  finished,  Yaouank-coz  took 
down  one  of  those  enormous  lanterns  that 
waggoners  hang  in  front  of  their  carts,  lighted  it,  in- 
vited me  to  follow  him,  and  as  we  went  out,  the  whole 
crowd  of  beggars  closed  in  behind  us.  The  night  was 
slate-grey,  sprinkled  with  tiny  stars.  We  crossed  the 
courtyard,  the  noise  of  our  footsteps  stifled  by  the  soft 
litter  with  which  it  was  strewn,  and  Yaouank,  the  light 
high  above  his  head,  kept  crying,  "  This  way,  take  care 
of  the  puddles." 

Doors  opened  here  and  there,  giving  entrance  to 
low  buildings,  grouped  like  the  cottages  of  a  hamlet, 
and  the  vapourous  breath  of  animals  warmed  our  faces, 
for  we  were  among  the  stables.  In  single  file  the 
beggars  passed  in  silently  to  the  litter  of  fresh  straw 
that  had  been  laid  for  them.  The  most  nimble  climbed 
the  ladder  leading  to  the  hay-lofts,  while  the  cows, 
astonished,  mooed  softly  in  the  darkness.  Then  from 
without  I  saw  the  great  watchful  lantern  of  the  old 
farmer  come  and  go,  now  on  the  ground-floor,  now 
under  the  eaves,  as  he  satisfied  himself  that  each 
one  had  his  place,  warning  this,  settling  that,  having 
an  eye  above  all  to  the  avoidance  of  questionable 
proximities. 

When    at    last   we    reached    the    house    again,    we 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  51 

found  Baptiste  asleep,  his  arms  spread  out  upon  the 
table. 

"  If  you  wish  to  do  likewise,"  said  the  farmer,  "there 
is  my  bed.  Oh,  you  will  not  be  depriving  me  of  it.  I 
shall  be  on  guard  till  to-morrow.  I  have  had  long 
experience  of  these  poor  folk  whom  I'm  entertaining. 
There  are  no  rascals  among  them,  but  there  may  very 
likely  be  some  careless  fellows.  A  pipe,  you  know,  is  a 
very  tempting  thing,  and  one  spark  is  enough  to  do  a 
great  deal  of  damage." 

"  If  that  is  so,  may  I  be  allowed  to  watch  with 
you  ?  " 

"Here,  Katik,  make  us  a  good  purgatory  fire, 
one  that  will  warm  us  well  without  burning  us. 
Very  little  wood,  you  know,  and  a  good  deal  of 
peat." 

The  servant  hastened  off  to  carry  out  her  master's 
order,  then  retired  to  bed  ;  and  we  remained  alone, 
seated  on  either  side  of  the  hearth,  our  feet  stretched 
out  toward  the  red-hot  embers,  glowing  beneath  their 
thick  covering  of  peat. 

The  silence  was  vast,  and  yet  there  seemed  a  rustling, 
as  though  all  the  great  memories  with  which  this  dwell- 
ing teemed  were  eddying  round  and  round  in  mystic 
flight. 

"  Tell  me,  Yaouank,"  I  began,  "  is  what  I  have  heard 
true  ? " 

"Ah,  you  want  to  hear  about  the  miracle  of  the 
soup,  do  you  not  ?  Well,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it. 
Of  course  I  am  not  a  learned  man  ;  I  wish  I  were.  But 
neither  am  I  a  fool.  No,  honestly  I  do  not  think  it 
would  come  into  anybody's  head  to  take  me  for  a  fool. 


52  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

Well,  now,  I  saw  that  particular  thing  to  which  you 
have  alluded — saw  it  with  these  two  selfsame  eyes 
that  I  have  in  my  head.  And  I  can  tell  you  that  they 
are  eyes  that  see  pretty  clearly.  Oh,  I  know  that 
people  say  that  I  was  drunk  that  evening — that  evening, 
indeed  !  they  might  as  well  say  this  evening.  Drunk, 
with  eighty  beggars  in  my  house,  just  as  I  have  to-night 
— eighty  beggars  lying  about  in  the  straw  of  my  stables 
and  in  my  hay-lofts.  I  should  have  been  three  times 
more  foolish  than  any  beast.  Well  now,  here  is  what 
actually  happened.  You  can  make  what  you  like  of  it. 
It  was  on  the  eighteenth  of  May,  this  very  date.  The 
whole  week  it  had  rained  without  ever  leaving  off.  The 
roads  round  about  were  nothing  but  quagmires,  and  as 
to  the  fields  where  the  pilgrimage  paths  lie,  the  grass 
was  under  water.  All  the  morning  it  rained,  and  all 
the  afternoon  it  still  rained — rained  in  torrents.  How- 
ever, my  wife — God  rest  her  soul !  for  she  is  dead  since 
then — began  to  get  the  poor  folks'  soup  ready  in  the 
great  pot  just  as  usual. 

"  *  Really,'  said  I,  *  if  you  take  my  advice,  you  will 
only  put  on  the  little  saucepan,  for  we  shall  have  nobody 
in  such  weather  as  this.' 

"  She  did  as  I  said,  only  putting  on  the  saucepan 
that  holds  twenty  bowls. 

"  By  nightfall  three  guests  had  arrived,  people  of  the 
neighbourhood,  whom  we  invited  to  sup  with  us,  intend- 
ing to  keep  them  afterwards  to  sleep  in  the  house. 
Already  the  servant  had  bolted  the  door,  and  we  were 
sitting  round  the  fire  chatting  comfortably  while  waiting 
for  evening  prayer,  when  suddenly  bang,  bang  on  the 
door! 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   POOR  53 

" '  Somebody  else,'  thought  we,  '  whom  this  awful 
weather  has  not  frightened.' 

"  My  wife  ran  to  open  to  them. 

"  '  Jesus  Maria,'  I  heard  her  cry,  clasping  her  hands, 
'  how  many  more — how  many  more  ? ' 

"And  we  saw  a  flood  of  people  enter,  and  after  them 
more  and  still  more.  Soon  the  kitchen  was  quite  full. 
All  our  usual  beggars  were  there,  those  from  Pleumeur, 
and  those  from  Tredarzec,  those  from  Penv^nan,  from 
Tr^vou,  from  Kermaria-Sulard.  And  amongst  them 
were  many  strange  faces,  new  pilgrims  come  from  the 
depths  of  the  country,  from  Ploumilliau,  from  Tredr^z 
and  even  from  Plestin.  They  were  pitiable  to  look  at, 
poor  things,  soaked  to  the  skin,  dejected,  miserable. 
Ah,  how  much  good  a  little  hot  soup  would  have  done 
them,  and  there  was  simply  none  left — possibly  a  few 
spoonfuls  !  I  was  furious  with  myself.  But  how  could 
I  have  foreseen  such  a  gathering  ?  The  poor  souls  were 
turning  longing  eyes  towards  the  chimney.  So  I  rose 
and  said  to  them — 

" '  We  are  extremely  sorry ;  it  is  the  first  time  that 
such  a  thing  has  ever  happened  to  us,  but  really  it  was 
such  frightful  weather  that  we  did  not  expect  you.  I 
am  grieved  to  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  but  the  fact  is, 
we  have  not  prepared  any  soup  for  you.' 

"  A  blank  despair  spread  over  all  their  faces,  and 
there  was  a  moment  of  sad  silence.  Then  from  among 
them  a  man  made  his  way  toward  me  ;  the  steam  rising 
from  their  soaking  clothes  was  so  thick  that  I  could  not 
clearly  see  his  face.  He  put  one  foot  on  the  hearth- 
stone, lifted  the  cover  of  the  saucepan,  bent  over  it,  and 
said  in  a  firm,  sweet  voice — 


34  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

"  '  With  what  remains  of  this  soup  you  shall  still  give 
comfort  to  these  wretched  souls  ; '  and  having  so  spoken 
he  retired  to  one  side. 

"  His  words  impressed  us.  My  wife  began  putting 
the  crepes  into  the  bowls,  and  the  poor  folk  made  their 
way  to  the  hearth  as  usual.  The  servant  began  measur- 
ing out  the  soup  ;  one,  two,  five,  ten  beggars  presented 
themselves  in  turn.  The  pot  seemed  inexhaustible. 
Twenty  came  and  went,  then  twenty  more,  and  still  the 
servant  kept  pouring. 

"  My  wife  had  become  pale  with  excitement.  How- 
ever hard  she  worked  at  her  task  she  could  not  get  on 
fast  enough.  One  of  the  farm-hands  had  to  come  and 
help  her. 

"  As  for  me,  a  sense  of  awe  stole  over  me.  We  all 
felt  that  we  were  taking  part  in  something  supernatural, 
and  held  our  breath,  scarce  daring  to  move.  The  weight 
of  the  miracle  was  upon  us  ;  not  one  poor  person,  I 
assure  you,  went  to  bed  without  his  soup.  Now,  that  is 
what  I  actually  saw  fifteen  years  ago  to-day.  When  I 
sought  for  the  man  who  had  spoken  he  had  disappeared. 
I  asked  who  he  was,  but  nobody  knew.  One  old  woman 
said — 

'"As  I  was  coming  along  by  the  churchyard  wall  I 
saw  him  cross  the  steps,  and  after  that  he  walked  by 
my  side.  Twice  he  held  out  his  hand  to  me  to  help 
me  over  the  puddles.  I  think  he  wore  the  tonsure,  for 
his  head  looked  white  under  the  rain.' 

"  She  said  no  more,  but  every  one  was  convinced 
that  the  strange  beggar  was  no  other  than  Yves  Heloury, 
the  old  master  of  this  place.  You  can  think  what  you 
please  about  it,  but  I  tell  you  again  that  that  is  what  I 


THE    PARDON    OF   THE    POOR  55 

saw,  and  many  others  are  still  living  who  can  bear 
witness  to  it." 

Yaouank-coz  knocked  his  pipe  on  the  nail  of  his 
thumb  to  shake  out  the  ashes,  and  seemed  absorbed  in 
memories  of  the  past.  Baptiste  snored  on  the  table. 
The  pendulum  of  the  clock  came  and  went  with  great 
heavy  strokes,  cleaving  time  somewhat  as  the  butcher 
does  his  block.  By  listening  to  this  persistent,  regular 
noise  I  ended  by  falling  asleep,  with  my  neck  resting 
against  the  bed  of  Saint  Yves,  my  brain  haunted  by 
strange  confused  dreams  of  poor  people  fastened  to 
church  spires,  eating  soup  out  of  golden  spoons. 

It  is  Sunday.  The  bells  of  Minihy  give  out  their 
clear  sweet  sounds.  The  pale  smile  of  dawn  silvers  the 
sky.  Grouped  in  the  courtyard,  around  the  well,  beggars 
are  taking  their  morning  wash.  On  the  roof  of  the 
dovecote  pigeons  are  preening  their  v/ings.  A  farm 
boy,  with  bare  legs,  leads  his  horses  to  the  trough.  The 
air  is  fresh  and  light,  full  of  a  turquoise  haze  that  idealizes 
everything.  Nothing  has  changed  in  this  scene  since 
the  days  when  Saint  Yves  lived  here.  The  river  lies 
below  at  high  water,  like  a  fair,  glittering  sheet  bordered 
by  dwarf  alders,  whose  foliage  dips  in  the  flood.  The 
hills  succeed  each  other,  undulating  like  an  ocean  swell, 
cradling  in  their  depths  villages,  parks,  orchards,  meadow- 
lands  that  fade  away  and  away  into  infinity.  In  the  grey 
light  of  the  distance  the  silhouette  of  Goelo  stands  out 
delicately,  bristling  with  slender  pines,  whose  fringed 
plumes  stir  like  smoke  with  every  breath  that  passes. 
At  church  they  have  just  celebrated  low  Mass,  and  the 
air  is  full  of  the  smell  of  burnt  wax.  Tiny  ships  with 
complicated  rigging  hang  from  the  beams  ;  women  pray, 


56  THE   LAND   OF   PARDOxXS 

their  faces  buried  in  their  hands  ;  many  are  dressed  as 
widows,  in  black,  glistening  stuff  falling  in  soft  folds  ; 
some  of  the  ragged  pilgrims  roam  along  the  wall,  per- 
petually prostrating  themselves  and  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross.  On  one  of  the  side-walls  one  can  read  the 
will  of  Yves  of  Kervarzin,  where  the  parish  of  Minihy 
and  the  poor  of  all  Brittany  figure  as  the  principal 
legatees.  It  was  put  up  there,  they  say,  by  a  pious 
young  lady,  who  had  to  expiate  a  great  sin,  committed 
in  her  youth  ;  for,  under  the  Reign  of  Terror  she  had 
represented  the  Goddess  of  Reason  in  a  state  procession 
at  Trdguier.  In  the  churchyard  close  by  the  porch  is  a 
sculptured  tomb  of  modest  aspect  and  without  inscription. 
An  opening  in  the  form  of  an  arch  goes  through  it  from 
one  side  to  the  other.  The  pilgrims  pass  through  on 
their  hands  and  knees,  and  kiss  with  their  lips  the 
stone  below.  As  they  rise,  their  faces  are  soiled 
with  mud,  but  radiant.  They  have  derived  a  sacred 
strength  from  the  rude  contact,  and  the  life-giving 
virtue  of  Yves  Heloury  has  passed  into  their  souls. 
For  it  is  here  that  he  rests,  never  doubt  it ;  here  it  is 
that  the  friend  of  the  poor,  who  wished  to  be  buried 
poorly,  really  reposes  ;  here  only  one  can  breathe  the 
perfume  of  his  sweet  soul,  in  the  midst  of  this  atmosphere 
scented  by  the  breath  of  the  country  and  the  salt  of 
the  sea. 

The  people  of  Treguier  have  raised  a  magnificent 
tomb  to  him  in  their  cathedral.  There  the  rich  go  to 
pray  to  him,  those  who  seek  the  luxurious,  sensuous 
beauties  of  art  in  their  worship.  But  the  multitude  of 
the  humble  will  never  desert  the  little  pilgrim  paths  to 
Minihy.     They  will  always  be  found  winding  in  long, 


THE  OLD    H)MB   OK   SAINT   WES   AT   MINlllV 


THE   PARDON    OF   THK    POOR 


.)< 


pious,  murmuring  procession  towards  that  sun-crowned 
hill  whose  feet  are  bathed  by  the  Jaudy.  For  there  the 
blessed,  gracious  favour  of  Saint  Yves  has  remained  shin- 
ing in  the  peaceful  smile  of  the  country  that  he  loved 
best  when  on  earth. 


BOOK   II.— RUMENGOL 
THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS 

DEDICATED   TO   CHARLES   LE   GOFFIC 

CHAPTER  I 

NO  sooner  had  King  Gralon,  at  Gwennole's  command, 
cast  his  daughter  into  the  sea  than  the  waves 
that  had  just  drowned  Ker-Is  paused,  suddenly  calmed, 
and  the  old  king  found  himself  alone  with  the  monk, 
safe  on  dry  land,  just  where  to-day  the  church  of 
Pouldahut  *  stands. 

His  horse,  old  like  himself,  was  trembling  through 
every  limb,  panting,  with  drooped  head,  and  nostrils 
dilated  with  fright.  Softly  Gralon  caressed  the  poor 
beast's  neck,  and  stroked  his  foam-flecked  mane,  still 
tangled  with  the  seaweed.  Of  all  whom  he  had  loved, 
this  was  the  only  creature  remaining  to  him,  and  as  he 
thought  of  it,  life  seemed  very  barren  and  empty,  so 
that  he  almost  regretted  that  he  had  not  perished  with 
the  others.  Above  all,  that  last  terrible  cry  of  his 
daughter  haunted  him ;  he  could  not  forget  the  re- 
proachful look  she  had  cast  upon  him,  as  he  pushed  her 
back  into  the  swirling  waters.      Could    it  possibly  be 

*  Pouldavid.  near  Douarnenez. 


THK    PROCESSION   OF   OUR   LAUV   OF   KUiMENGOl. 


THE    PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  59 

true  that  he  had  done  this  horrible  thing  ?  What ! 
with  his  own  hand  had  he  drowned  his  child  !  He  had 
had  no  pity  on  her  weeping,  or  her  terror !  And  she 
had  clung  so  confidingly  to  him,  imploring  him  in  her 
own  sweet  voice — 

"  Save  me,  father !     Save  me  !     Oh,  save  me !  " 

But  instead,  he  had  listened  to  the  monk,  to  this  ill- 
omened  man.  As  Gwennole  watched  the  face  of  the 
king,  he  marked  the  stormy  movement  of  his  thoughts, 
and,  after  a  pause,  said  sternly — 

"  Gralon,  give  thanks  to  God,  who  by  my  means  has 
lengthened  your  old  age,  so  that  you  may  have  a  chance 
of  working  out  your  eternal  salvation." 

Cowed  by  the  imperious  tone  of  the  monk,  the 
Chief  of  Cornouailles  raised  his  aged  face,  all  bathed  in 
tears,  toward  heaven,  and  prayed.  The  gentle  evening 
breeze  played  with  his  white  beard,  but  his  heart  was 
filled  with  infinite  sorrow,  so  that  the  words  as  they  rose 
to  his  lips  were  broken  by  sobs.  And  away  in  the  cold, 
grey  distance  of  the  sea  the  day  lay  dying. 

"  Come,"  cried  Gwennole  ;  and  together  they  directed 
their  horses'  steps  toward  the  north.  They  climbed 
steep,  billowy,  brushwood  slopes,  plunged  into  the 
depths  of  dark  ravines,  peopled  by  monstrous  boulders 
that  in  the  half  light  resembled  troops  of  petrified  wild 
beasts. 

They  soon  lost  sight  of  the  sea,  but  for  a  long,  long 
while  his  terrible  song  pursued  them,  sounding  through 
the  great  mists  that  followed  in  their  wake.  Sometimes 
in  the  midst  of  the  savage  noise  a  strident  call  would 
arise  from  the  shore,  and  Gwennol6  said,  "  It  is  the  gulls 
returning  to  their  nests  !  "  but  Gralon  thought,  "  It  was 


60  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

even  thus  she  screamed,  as  I  tore  her  arms  from  around 
my  neck,"  and  under  his  breath  he  murmured,  "  Ahes  ! 
alas,  my  Ah^s  !  "  At  last  they  had  travelled  so  far 
that  even  the  moaning  of  the  waters  was  left  behind  ; 
but  still  the  salt  breath  of  the  ocean  wrapped  them 
round,  mingling  with  the  perfume  of  strange  flowers, 
such  as  the  old  king  fancied  he  had  noticed  in  the 
golden  hair  of  his  daughter  only  the  night  before.  He 
thought  of  her  fair  brow,  smooth  as  young  ivory,  on  which 
each  morning  he  had  been  wont  to  set  a  kiss  ;  and  he 
remembered  how  she  used  to  smile  up  at  him,  how 
caressing  she  was,  what  light  burned  in  the  depths  of 
her  wonderful  eyes. 

Then  again  it  was  deep  night,  and  the  horses'  hoofs 
sank  in  the  soft  moss  of  a  forest,  where  high,  black 
branches  spread  motionless,  as  though  still  sheltering 
the  ancient  Druid  mysteries  that  so  long  held  sway  in 
these  regions. 

Suddenly,  upon  the  edge  of  a  clearing,  they  saw  a 
bright  light  gleaming  from  the  window  of  a  hut ;  for 
Primel  the  anchorite  dwelt  there — Primel,  who  was 
reported  by  some  to  have  lived  in  the  days  of  the 
Christ  Himself  1 

"  Let  us  rest  till  morning,"  said  Gwennole  ;  "  we  shall 
be  safe  under  the  protection  of  this  holy  man  ;  and  I 
have  a  hope,  oh  king,  that  healing  and  peace  may 
come  to  you  from  his  presence." 

He  was  seated  at  the  end  of  the  cabin,  this  Primel 
of  whom  the  monk  spoke.  At  the  approach  of  the  two 
travellers,  he  moved  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  a  tree. 
His  heavy  cloth  robe  seemed  to  have  become  one  with 
his  flesh,  so  entirely  did  the  wrinkled  folds  of  the  stuff 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  61 

and  the  green  mould  with  which  in  places  it  was 
stained  resemble  ancient  bark  growing  upon  the 
motionless,  gnarled  body  of  the  hermit. 

His  head  looked  as  though  sculptured  by  the  axe  of 
some  unskilled  workman,  some  maker  of  barbarous 
idols.  But  ah  !  what  fairy  fingers  had  curled  and  wound 
his  hair,  so  fine  that  the  spiders  mistook  it  for  their 
webs  ? 

From  his  shoulders  spread  two  great  branches 
that  were  his  arms.  Outward  they  stretched,  as  in 
benediction,  and  upon  them  the  whole  house  rested. 
And  the  soles  of  his  naked  feet  were  flattened  into  the 
soil,  while  his  nails  had  grown  enormous,  twisted,  like 
roots  many  centuries  old. 

It  was  said  of  him  that  he  lived  after  the  manner  of 
trees,  on  the  juices  of  earth  and  the  air  of  heaven  ;  it 
was  thus  that  people  accounted  for  his  great  age. 
Never  had  he  been  seen  to  take  any  food,  so  the 
peasants  had  given  up  bringing  him  offerings  of  milk 
and  quarters  of  lamb,  for  he  left  the  birds  to  drink  the 
milk  and  the  wolves  to  devour  the  lamb.  He  loved 
all  creation  with  an  immense,  pervading  love,  men 
as  well  as  brutes,  never  distinguishing  the  evil  from 
the  good.  To  him  every  living  thing  represented  some 
element  of  order  and  beauty  in  the  perfect  universe  of 
God. 

Old  as  he  was,  his  soul  had  remained  crystal  pure, 
no  evil  experiences  had  embittered  him,  and  he  still 
looked  at  the  world  with  the  wondering  gaze  of  a  little 
child.  The  extreme  hopefulness  of  his  race  shone  in 
his  clear  eyes,  set  in  round  orbits  like  the  holes  that 
woodpeckers  bore  in  oak  trees. 


62  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

Upon  entering,  Gwennole  prostrated  himself  btfore 
the  hermit,  but  Gralon  sank  down  on  a  heap  of  dead 
leaves,  blown  into  a  corner  of  the  hut,  by  the  first  winds 
of  autumn.  Scarcely  had  he  dropped  there  when  a 
strange  drowsiness  began  to  creep  through  his  veins. 
Never  had  he  felt  such  delicious  repose,  not  even 
when,  after  some  great  battle  charge,  he  had  stretched 
himself  luxuriously  under  the  curtains  of  his  bed  at 
Ker-Is  and  drawn  the  soft  skins  of  wild  beasts  around 
him. 

The  sad  voice  of  his  daughter,  which  had  kept 
moaning  in  his  ears,  sank  little  by  little  into  a  vague 
minor  chant,  a  slow,  melancholy  cradle-song  that 
lapped  his  soul  tenderly. 

For  a  long,  long  time  he  seemed  to  see  his  body 
sleeping  there,  while  he  listened  to  the  two  saints 
murmuring  the  alternating  verses  of  a  prayer,  that 
sounded  as  the  noise  of  running  waters  answered  by 
rowers'  songs.  And  the  horses  were  browsing  under 
the  stars  without ;  through  the  frame  of  the  door  he 
could  see  their  vast  shadows  moving  over  the  frosty 
grass.  So  the  night  passed  away,  and  the  grey  dawn 
came. 

Then  Primel  blessed  his  guests,  and  turning  to 
Gralon,  said — 

"  My  son,  when  your  heart  is  full  of  sorrow,  take 
refuge  in  solitude.  Forests  above  all  are  comforting  to 
men  who  suffer.  God  made  them  to  be  a  holy  refuge, 
where  peace  can  always  be  found.  It  is  in  the  wood- 
land that  the  harmony  of  the  world  can  be  most  clearly 
realized." 

By  evening  that  day  the  travellers  alighted  before 


THE    I'OMH   OF   SAINT   GWKXNOLK    IN    LANDKVENN  EC   AHHKV 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  63 

the  Abbey  of  Landevennec,  built  on  a  leafy  shore,  just 
where  the  Aulne  empties  itself  into  the  rade  of  Brest. 
It  was  here  that  Gwennole  had  settled  his  monks, 
finding  the  place  propitious  for  prayer  and  meditation. 
The  small  community  formed  a  kind  of  village  or 
colony,  half  monastic,  half  agricultural,  each  monk 
having  his  separate  cell,  with  a  garden  full  of  flowers, 
and  a  hive  or  two  of  bees. 

Behind  the  little  settlement  rose  the  fair  hills,  kissed 
by  the  earliest  beams  of  the  morning  sun,  lighted  by 
his  latest  glow.  Flocks  and  herds  were  feeding  on 
the  slopes,  tended  by  novices  who,  as  they  watched, 
studied  parchment  scrolls  written  in  rude  Gothic 
characters. 

An  arm  of  the  sea  encircled  the  abbey  lands,  and, 
after  bathing  the  foot  of  the  hill,  turned  abruptly 
to  the  east  and  thrust  itself  into  the  rocky  depths 
of  the  Montagne  Noire,  its  glittering  curve  recall- 
ing the  flaming,  twisted  blade  of  the  great  arch- 
angel. 

Towards  the  west  the  blue  waters,  broken  here  and 
there  into  tiny  wavelets  of  shimmering  gold,  lay  peaceful 
as  an  inland  lake.  But  what  gave  the  greatest  charm 
of  all  to  this  oasis  of  verdure  and  still  water  was  a 
certain  formal  row  of  vines,  that  shut  off  the  view  to  the 
north.  One  pictured  beyond  some  barren,  wind-swept 
country,  for  ever  beaten  by  the  savage  ocean,  with  a 
long  line  of  granite  coast,  standing  like  a  rampart 
against  the  tempestuous  rage  of  the  flood.  Vainly 
might  the  wild  Atlantic  storms  fling  themselves  against 
it  as  upon  a  giant  wall,  vainly  might  the  huge,  white- 
topped  breakers  rise  above  it,  gleams  of  light  sparkling 


64  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

and  dancing  menacingly  upon  their  snowy  crests.  The 
fancy  added  zest  to  this  quiet  nook,  peopled  only  by 
monks,  living  a  life  of  dreams.  These  calming  influences 
were  not  long  in  working  upon  Gralon,  whose  old  soul 
was  soft  as  wax.  Already  past  events  were  beginning 
to  slip  from  his  memory,  when  one  winter  night,  as  he 
was  watching  in  his  chamber,  he  heard  a  sweet  voice 
singing.  It  could  not  possibly  come  from  any  of  the 
monks'  cells,  for  they  had  long  since  been  closed  for 
the  night,  and  their  inmates  were  asleep.  Moreover, 
no  monk,  not  even  one  of  the  young  novices,  could  have 
sung  with  such  feminine  delicacy  and  grace.  So 
bewitching  was  the  strain  that,  like  a  subtle  clue,  it 
found  its  way  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  old 
king's  heart,  so  that  pushing  open  the  wooden  shutters, 
he  leaned  out  of  the  window,  and  turned  his  eyes 
seawards. 

The  water  lay  glistening  in  the  moonshine,  bright 
as  silver,  and  from  the  pale  sparkle  of  the  waves  rose 
the  head  and  shoulders  of  a  young  girl.  Among  the 
long  tresses  of  her  floating  hair  precious  stones  were 
sparkling,  unless  indeed  they  were  but  the  reflection  of 
the  stars.  Her  face  lighted  from  above  shone  strangely, 
with  a  soft,  ghostly  splendour,  in  which  her  burning  eyes 
glittered  like  two  emeralds,  and  her  lips  as  the  petals 
of  a  mystic  rose  in  the  garden  of  the  sea.  Then 
Gralon,  when  he  saw  her,  stretched  out  his  arm,  crying 
into  space,  "  Ahes !  .  .  .  Ah6s !  .  .  ."  for  he  had  re- 
cognized his  daughter;  and  still  he  called  after  her,  even 
when,  with  the  ease  of  a  fish,  she  had  swum  away  into 
the  darkness.  The  two  last  lines  of  her  song  hung 
quivering  in  the  air,  and  the  moon  bore  them  onward 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  65 

in  faint,  slow  vibrations,  like  the  luminous  notes  of  some 
great  lyre — 

"Ah^s,  breman  Mary  Morgan, 
E  skeud  an  oabr,  d'an  noz,  a  gan."  * 

It  is  a  Celtic  belief  that  a  fairy  lives  in  the  sea,  a 
fairy  beautiful  as  an  angel,  but  cruel  as  death  itself. 
They  say  that  she  has  the  form  and  bosom  of  a  maiden, 
but  for  the  rest  is  a  monster,  covered  with  scales  and 
ending  in  a  fish's  tail.  Her  beautiful  form  is  seen  rising 
above  the  water,  on  those  still  evenings  that  often  pre- 
cede great  storms.  Her  loose  hair  floats  over  the  waves, 
and  from  her  lips  rises  a  sweet,  sad  song,  so  full  of 
passionate  love  that  the  very  boats  pause  to  listen.  As 
for  the  sailors  themselves,  bewildered,  fascinated,  they 
cannot  turn  away  their  eyes  from  the  enchantress,  whose 
white  arms  beckon  them.  Then  a  madness  seizes  them, 
and,  flinging  off  their  clothes,  all  naked  they  plunge 
headlong  in  the  waves  to  go  to  her.  Meanwhile  she 
watches  them  with  her  shining  eyes,  in  which  green 
flames  are  burning,  and,  as  they  reach  her,  strains  them 
to  her  heart  one  by  one,  with  the  wild  strength  of  an 
elemental  force.  Then  the  sky  darkens,  the  clouds 
gather  into  the  long,  black  folds  of  a  funeral  pall,  the 
ocean  swell  hollows  a  bed  in  its  yielding  depths,  and  the 
great  orchestra  of  the  tempest  sounds  forth  in  all  its 
horror. 

The  fairy  loves  these  terrible  surroundings  to  her 
wild  love-making.  Her  kisses  breathe  so  fierce  a 
passion  that  her  lovers  die  at  once,  as  though  poisoned. 

*  "  Mary  Morgan  sings  at  midnight. 
Sings  within  the  silver  moonlight." 


66  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

The  mouth  upon  which  hers  has  fastened  suddenly 
detaches  itself,  withered,  gaping,  silent  for  ever.  Along 
all  the  Breton  coast  there  is  not  a  family  but  has  some 
murder  with  which  to  reproach  her,  and  they  call  her 
Mary  Morgan,  Bom  of  the  Sea.  She  is  one,  yet  many. 
Numberless  have  been  her  incarnations,  yet  the  same 
sinful  soul  always  reappears. 

"  Ah^s,  breman  Mary  Morgan  .  .  ." 

And  it  was  to  this  awful  life  of  seduction  and  murder 
that  Gralon  had  given  his  daughter  for  all  eternity. 

Throughout  the  night  the  mournful  refrain  kept 
sounding  in  his  ears,  awakening  bitter  memories,  and 
to  his  other  sorrows  adding  this  new  shame.  His  Ah6s 
become  an  object  of  hate  and  loathing  !  Ah^s,  who  for 
so  long  had  been  the  joy  of  his  eyes,  who  might  have 
been  the  very  flower  of  his  race  ! 

The  following  evening  he  saw  the  same  apparition, 
heard  the  same  song  ;  and  for  many  nights  afterwards 
it  continued,  so  that  the  poor  old  man  no  longer  dared 
to  stretch  himself  upon  his  couch.  Broken  at  last  by 
weariness  and  agony  of  mind — for  the  haunting  image 
gave  him  not  a  moment's  respite — he  sank  upon  his 
knees  beside  the  open  casement,  and  in  his  turn 
implored  mercy  of  his  daughter. 

"Have  pity!  "  he  murmured  ;  "my  last  hour  draws 
very  near  1  Let  me  forget !  Ah !  suffer  me  to  die  in 
peace." 

But  just  as  he  had  shown  no  pity  to  Ah^s,  so  now 
the  fairy  of  the  waters  had  none  for  him.  Then,  at  last, 
to   escape   from   the   horror,  he  resolved  to  fly  so  far 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  67 

inland  that  the  very  breath  of  the  dreadful  sea  could 
not  reach  him. 

He  took  one  of  the  sacks  in  which  the  peasants  of 
that  countryside  used  to  bring  offerings,  and,  having 
clothed  himself  with  it,  set  forth  at  break  of  day,  when 
all  the  monks  of  Landevennec  were  at  Matins.  Follow- 
ing the  course  of  the  river  Aulne,  he  came  at  last  to 
the  ferry  of  Teren^s,  over  which  he  was  taken  by  the 
little  daughter  of  the  ferryman.  When  she  landed  him 
upon  the  farther  bank,  he  blessed  her,  and  intoned  a 
prayer  for  her  in  his  sorrowful  voice.  She  took  him 
for  some  beggar  going  his  rounds,  the  great  chief  of 
Cornouailles,  this  man  who  had  built  Ker-Is,  uniting  on 
his  brow  all  the  crowns  of  Armorica !  After  climbing 
the  hill  of  Roznoen,  he  went  into  a  cottage  that  stood 
by  the  roadside.  Said  the  woman  to  him  :  "  We  give 
alms  only  on  a  Saturday,  my  good  man,  because  then 
it  is  the  eve  of  the  blessed  Sabbath.  Still,  here  is  a 
crepe  for  you,  and  some  bacon,  for  you  seem  very 
weary." 

So,  thanking  her,  he  took  the  food,  and  as  his  old 
legs  were  sinking  beneath  him,  asked  permission  to  rest 
on  the  doorstep  for  a  little  while.  .  .  . 

About  dusk  he  passed  through  the  town  of  Faou. 
His  cousin,  and  lieutenant,  had  a  castle  there,  and  was 
giving  a  great  entertainment.  All  the  windows  were 
blazing  with  light,  and  sounds  of  merriment  could  be 
heard  within.  Gralon  seated  himself  upon  a  stone,  near 
the  door  by  which  the  guests  passed  in  and  out,  but 
servants  came  and  drove  him  away,  and  he  never  told 
them  who  he  was,  but  submitted  meekly  to  the  insult. 
Was   it   not   all   a    change,  something  that   took  his 


68  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

thoughts  away  from  that  one  fixed,  torturing  remem- 
brance ? 

Now,  on  the  right,  a  valley  opened,  and  the  king, 
turning,  passed  into  it.  The  path  wound  upwards, 
shaded  by  slender  branches  between  which  the  moon 
shone,  embroidering  the  ground  with  clear,  delicate 
tracery.  Then  came  lofty  forests,  slender,  mossy  pillars 
supporting  great,  shadowy  domes,  all  the  mystery  of  an 
empty  church.  Night !  Every  sound  had  died  away 
into  the  distance,  even  the  persistent  murmur  of  the  sea. 

Gralon  thought  of  the  words  of  Primel  the  anchorite  : 
"  The  forests  are  comforting  to  men  who  suffer ;  God 
made  them  to  be  a  holy  refuge."  His  troubled  brow 
cleared,  his  heart  was  full  of  peace,  as  though  an  in- 
surmountable barrier  shut  him  off  from  the  rest  of  the 
world.  And  still  he  kept  advancing,  longing  to  bathe, 
nay  even  to  lose  himself  in  this  quiet  place,  to  feel  more 
and  more  at  each  step  the  protection  of  all  the  forest 
things  that  were  thickening  around  him.  The  avenue 
down  which  he  was  walking  was  wide  as  the  nave  of  a 
great  church,  and  as  he  noted  the  springing  arches  of 
the  boughs,  he  thought  within  himself:  "  If  it  is  God's 
wish  that  I  should  live  for  a  few  years  longer,  I  will 
take  this  forest  as  my  model,  and  here  on  this  spot  will 
I  raise  a  cathedral,  with  as  many  stone  columns  as  now 
I  see  tree  trunks.  Not  one  poor  soul  in  all  Brittany 
but  shall  here,  like  myself,  find  healing  and  consolation." 

Meanwhile,  Gwennole,  greatly  disturbed  by  the  dis- 
appearance of  the  king,  set  forth  in  quest  of  him.  After 
a  long,  long  search  he  found  him  in  the  retreat  he  had 
chosen   for  himself,   at  the  entrance  to  the  forest  of 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  SINGERS  69 

Kranou.  There  he  lay,  stretched  on  a  bed  of  moss, 
over  which  fallen  leaves  lay  like  golden  tears.  Near 
him  something  human  was  crouching,  something  that 
had  scarcely  the  appearance  of  being  ahve. 

Seeing  the  monk  approach,  his  white  cloth  gown 
contrasting  sharply  with  the  sombre  shadows  of  the 
wood,  Gralon  raised  himself  with  an  effort. 

"You  come  just  in  time  to  receive  my  last  breath," 
he  said.  "  Be  not  harsh  with  the  old  man  yonder.  He 
has  lived  for  three  ages,  and  has  known  all  the  depths 
of  suffering.  The  ills  that  I  have  endured  are  as 
nothing  to  the  agonies  through  which  he  has  passed. 
I  have  had  to  mourn  for  my  ruined  city,  for  the  awful 
fate  of  my  only  child  ;  but  he — ah,  he  has  lost  his  gods  ! 
What  sorrow  can  compare  with  this  sorrow  ?  Once  he 
was  a  Druid ;  now  he  mourns  a  dead  religion.  Be 
gentle  with  him,  oh,  Gwennole.  He  will  tell  you  of  my 
last  wish,  my  great  vow,  and  how  dear  this  place  has 
grown  to  me — this  place,  where  I  have  had  a  foretaste 
of  the  joy  of  being  no  more.  To  your  hands  I  com- 
mend my  soul,  purified  at  last  from  the  memories  that 
so  long  have  troubled  it."  .  .  . 

Then  his  head  fell  back  motionless  on  the  grass,  and 
the  King  of  Cornouailles  was  dead. 

Gwennole  began  murmuring  Latin  psalms,  and  the 
Druid,  in  a  quavering  voice,  intoned  a  dirge  in  some 
barbarous  tongue,  while  Gralon,  great  Chief  of  the  Sea, 
lay  in  the  glade  till  morning,  watched  over  by  the  priest 
of  the  Christ  and  the  last  worshipper  of  Teutatcs. 
Strange  thoughts  must  have  haunted  the  souls  of  these 
two  men.  Perchance  the  presence  of  that  silent  form 
sufficed  to  bridge  over  the  gulf  that  lay  between  them, 


70  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

so  that  above  the  king's  body,  in  the  deep  melancholy 
of  that  night  of  death,  these  ancient  cults  took  one 
another  by  the  hand,  and  held  communion  with  the 
dead  under  the  majestic  roof  of  the  forest. 

At  daybreak  a  troop  of  monks  appeared,  whom 
Gwennol^  had  commanded  to  follow  him.  They  washed 
the  remains  of  the  chief  in  the  neighbouring  fountain, 
wound  him  in  a  piece  of  linen  perfumed  with  vervain, 
and  took  him  upon  their  shoulders,  to  bear  him  to 
Land^vennec,  where  in  a  ruined  crypt  his  sepulchre 
may  still  be  seen. 

When  they  had  disappeared,  the  Druid  spoke — 

"Brother  (for  are  we  not  sprung  from  common 
ancestors ,-'),  he  whom  we  have  just  led  to  the  threshold 
of  the  other  world  asked  me  to  make  known  to  you  his 
last  wishes.  I  promised  him  to  go,  if  necessary,  even 
to  your  house,  though  I  am  forbidden  by  the  rules  of 
my  religion  to  cross  the  enchanted  boundary  of  the 
forest.  This  is  what  he  wished  you  to  do :  he  desired 
that  under  your  direction  a  church  should  be  raised  on 
this  spot  to  the  Sorrowful  Mother  of  your  God,  so  that 
sick  persons  should  there  find  health,  and  the  heavy- 
laden,  peace. 

"  There  was  once  a  time — I  was  young  then — when 
a  block  of  red  granite  stood  here.  Its  touch  gave  sight 
to  the  blind,  hearing  to  the  deaf,  hope  to  hearts  in  dis- 
tress. May  the  sanctuary  that  you  raise  inherit  the 
same  virtues  ;  it  is  my  wish — the  wish  of  one  conquered, 
but  resigned  to  the  changing  order  of  the  times,  one 
who  feels  neither  bitterness  nor  hatred.    I  have  spoken." 

For  a  moment  or  two  Gwennold  remained  thinking, 
his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground. 


XHK    TOMi;   OK    KING   GRALON    AT    LAXI.KVKNNEC 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  71 

"  But  if  we  do  this  thing,"  he  cried  at  last,  moved 
in  spite  of  himself  by  the  perfect  serenity  of  the  Druid, 
"  we  shall  disturb  you — you,  whose  last  refuge  we  shall 
be  invading ! " 

"Oh,  me!"  .  .  .  answered  the  old  man  ;  and  after  a 
pause,  he  added,  with  a  gesture  of  weariness  and  dis- 
couragement, "After  all,  it  is  the  duty  of  my  gods  to 
protect  me,  if  they  really  exist,  and  are  able  to  do 
anything  for  me."  Then,  pointing  up  to  the  blue  sky, 
fresh  with  the  clear  pale  light  of  an  October  morning, 
he  said,  "  In  the  furthest  depths  of  that  majesty  we 
find  on  high,  perchance  there  is  nothing  but  a  great 
mistake." 

Thoroughly  scandalized,  Gwennole  replied  sternly, 
"  To  believe  is  to  know." 

But  he  softened  again  immediately,  full  of  com- 
passion for  this  ancient  man,  last  remnant  of  a  mighty, 
sombre  creed. 

"  Why  will  you  not  come  with  me  to  my  abbey  ? " 
he  asked  ;  "  we  have  a  pleasant  cell  for  guests,  and  we 
would  teach  you  the  Word  of  Life." 

"Ah,  but  I  love  my  woodland  paths  better!" 
answered  the  Druid  ;  "  they  are  familiar  to  me.  More- 
over, do  not  all  Tracks  lead  to  the  same  Great  Centre  ? 
One  thing  only  I  ask  of  you.  When  your  workmen 
come  to  build  the  church,  if  they  find  my  body  rotting 
on  the  ground,  tell  them  to  bury  it.     Farewell !  " 

He  turned  his  back,  and,  leaning  on  his  knotted 
staff,  passed  feebly  away  down  the  long  avenue,  while 
Gwennole,  his  heart  sad  and  softened,  he  knew  not  why, 
went  slowly  off  towards  the  sea. 


n  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 


CHAPTER  II 

I  HAVE  ventured  to  give  the  legend  at  some  length. 
Gralon's  vow  was  accomplished,  and  a  church  was 
raised  on  the  site  he  had  chosen.  Three  valises  full  of 
gold,  saved  from  the  wreck  of  Ker-Is,  scarcely  sufficed 
to  cover  the  cost  of  the  building,  which  contained,  so 
says  tradition,  as  many  stone  columns  as  the  country  of 
Rumengol  had  trees.  The  present  church  is  but  a  poor 
imitation  of  it ;  but  as  the  proverb  says,  "  It  will  not  do 
to  judge  of  the  miracles  by  the  size  of  the  church." 
The  humble  chapel  of  to-day  has  the  same  reputation 
among  Bretons  as  had  the  magnificent  erection  of  the 
past.  People  flock  to  it  the  whole  year  round,  coming 
from  all  sides,  from  the  interior  of  the  country,  and 
from  the  coast. 

One  August  evening  I  found  myself  landed  at 
Cloitre-Plourin,  a  little  wayside  station  on  the  line  to 
Carhaix.  It  lies  lost  in  the  midst  of  a  marshy  plateau, 
a  region  of  empty  peat-holes,  broken  here  and  there  by 
black,  leprous  patches  and  unwholesome  mirrors  of  stag- 
nant water.  Not  a  house  to  be  seen  save  the  station  !  I 
was  on  my  way  to  visit  "  Les  Kragou,"  a  line  of  stone 
breakers  whose  strange  crests  bristle  along  the  west  of 
the  Mountains  of  Ar^. 

I  took  the  only  road  I  could  find,  a  primitive  route 
enough,  just  a  couple  of  deep  ruts  enclosing  a  grassy 


THE   PARDON    OF  THE   SINGERS  73 

path,  the  kind  of  track  down  which,  according  to  Breton 
belief,  the  Cart  of  Death  is  accustomed  to  make  its 
way. 

A  little  before  me  walked  an  old  woman,  a  poor 
creature  with  a  halting  gait.  Her  feet  were  shod  with 
men's  heavy  shoes,  and  her  form  was  so  bent  that  her 
long  arms  seemed  to  grow  out  of  her  waist. 

As  I  overtook  her,  I  gave  her  a  Breton  "  Good  day," 
to  which  she  responded  with  a  voice  that  had  a  youth- 
ful, silvery  ring  in  it.  I  have  often  noticed  that  our 
Breton  peasant  women  retain  a  certain  childish  charm 
to  extreme  old  age. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  she  was  pleased  to  meet 
some  human  being  in  that  vast  solitude.  The  sombre- 
ness  of  her  surroundings  had  begun  to  affect  her,  and 
the  painful  impression  was  increased  by  the  melancholy 
twilight,  so  that  no  doubt  she  was  feeling  that  vague 
terror  which  in  our  western  districts  always  comes  with 
evening.  She  began  to  talk  at  once,  expressing  the 
hope  that  we  should  go  a  long  way  together. 

"  I  am  very  anxious,"  said  she,  "  to  reach  the  town 
of  Berrien  before  the  lights  are  put  out.  Unfortunately, 
I  am  no  longer  so  active  as  I  used  to  be ;  in  fact,  I 
move  like  a  log." 

I  noticed  the  neck  of  a  bottle  peeping  out  of  an 
apron  pocket. 

"  No  doubt  you  are  a  pilgrim  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Yes,"  said  she ;  "  I  am.  Years  ago,  when  I  was 
stronger,  I  was  constantly  to  be  seen  travelling  about 
the  roads.  But  I  am  getting  very  feeble  ;  I  am  nearly 
eighty  years  old,  and  in  truth  I  ought  to  be  at  rest  in 
my  house  in  the  churchyard.     But  I  still  have  to  work. 


74  THE  LAND   OF  PARDONS 

you  see,  for  one  must  earn  one's  living  even  to  the 
end." 

And  then  she  told  me  that  she  was  going  to 
Rumengol,  by  way  of  Berrien  and  Commana,  right 
across  that  mountainous  country.  Already  she  had 
been  travelling  for  two  days,  having  come  all  the  way 
from  Plounevez-Moedec,  in  C6tes-du-Nord,  near  by  the 
forest  of  Coat-an-Noz.  She  was  on  her  way  to  pray  to 
the  Virgin  of  "  Tout-Remede  (as  they  call  our  Lady 
of  Rumengol)  for  the  speedy  release  of  a  dying  neigh- 
bour, who  was  suffering  great  agony  without  being 
able  to  expire. 

With  the  intention  of  keeping  me  as  long  as 
possible  by  her  side,  she  began  telling  me  of  the 
solemn  rites  she  had  to  perform  when  once  she  reached 
the  end  of  her  pilgrimage. 

First,  she  would  kneel  before  the  porch,  above  which 
(as  she  informed  me)  Gralon  is  represented,  imploring 
the  special  tenderness  of  the  Mother  of  all  Christendom 
on  behalf  of  the  Breton  people.  Then,  three  times, 
barefoot,  her  shoes  in  her  hand,  she  would  make  the 
tour  of  the  chapel,  walking  face  to  the  sun,  and  reciting 
in  Breton  a  very  ancient  ballad,  known  under  the  name 
of  "  The  Dream  of  the  Virgin  "  : — 

"  Lady  Mary  the  fair  in  her  bed  lay  sleeping 
When  a  dream  to  her  came  ; 
Her  Son  was  passing  and  passing  before  her, 
And  gazed  straight  in  her  face." 

She  repeated  the  whole  prayer  to  me,  an  exquisite 
thing,  filled  with  almost  Galilean  simplicity. 

Then  would  come  the  prayers  in  the  church.  The 
good  old  soul  would  light  a  candle  in  front  of  the  sacred 


THE   SOUTH    DOOR   OF    KUMP:N00L  CHURCH 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  75 

image,  let  it  burn  for  a  moment,  then  suddenly  ex- 
tinguish it,  in  order  to  let  the  Glorious  Mary  know 
what  particular  kind  of  service  was  required  of  her,  and 
it  was  to  be  hoped  that  far  off  in  Plounevez-Moedec  the 
dying  friend  would  breathe  her  last  at  that  particular 
moment.  If  not,  there  was  still  a  resource.  My  old 
friend  would  go  to  the  holy  fountain,  fill  her  bottle, 
and  on  her  return  scatter  a  few  drops  of  the  water  upon 
the  eyelids  of  the  sufferer.  Immediately  her  eyeballs 
would  turn  in  their  sockets,  and  pain  cease  with  life. 

"It  is  the  fifty-sixth  time  that  I  have  made  this 
pilgrimage,"  she  continued,  "  and  for  fifty-six  different 
cases.  There  is  no  favour  that  Rumengol  does  not 
grant ;  it  cures  ills  of  the  soul  as  well  as  those  of  the 
body.  Gralon's  was  the  first  miracle.  He  was  haunted 
by  the  demon  of  his  daughter  Ahe,  and  could  not  sleep. 
Our  Lady  set  him  free."  .  .  . 

Once  started  on  her  favourite  theme,  the  old  woman 
was  going  straight  on,  but  we  had  reached  the  slope  of 
"  Les  Kragou." 

"  Ah,  you  are  going  to  the  rocks  !  "  she  exclaimed, 
with  a  slight  shudder.  "  Well,  may  God  protect  you ! 
My  way  is  down  this  road." 

And  she  disappeared  gradually  into  a  fold  of  the 
mountain.  Upon  reaching  the  summit,  I  scrambled  on 
to  one  of  the  great  stones,  from  whence  I  could  see  the 
poor  old  creature,  hastening  along  with  her  hobbling 
gait,  through  the  grey  fall  of  dusk.  Two  leagues 
away  to  the  south,  over  a  desert  of  peat-bog,  a  spire 
pointing  upwards  from  a  grove  of  trees  scattered 
a  melancholy  tinkling  through  the  quiet  air.  The 
Angelus  was  sounding  at  Berrien. 


76  THE   LAND  OF   PARDONS 


CHAPTER  III 

IT  was  the  first  week  of  June,  the  sweet  hay-making 
month.  The  six-o'clock  train,  crowded  with  passen- 
gers, had  just  entered  Quimper  station.  All  along  the 
route  from  Lorient  it  had  been  collecting  pilgrims. 
Through  doors  and  windows  they  could  be  seen, 
quietly  seated,  with  serious,  meditative  faces.  There 
were  people  from  Vannes,  Gwenedours,  with  straight, 
smooth  hair,  and  strong,  roughly  sculptured  features  ; 
men  of  Scaer,  with  fine,  broad  shoulders,  their  black 
waistcoats  braided  with  velvet  ;  youths  from  Elliant, 
fixed  in  their  stiff  collars,  and  representations  of  the 
Holy  Sacrament  embroidered  on  their  backs.  Many 
women  there  were  ;  some  withered  with  age,  cadaverous 
of  hue,  their  figures  broadened  by  hard  work  in  the 
fields  and  constant  maternity ;  some,  exquisitely  fresh, 
pure  flowers  of  love,  the  wings  of  their  coifs  floating  out 
like  white  petals. 

In  the  waiting-room,  groups  were  stationed  before 
the  gates — peasants  from  the  outskirts  of  Quimper, 
people  from  Kerfeunteun  and  Ergue,  from  Plomelin, 
and  from  Fouesnant.  Supplementary  carriages  were 
added,  and  immediately  taken  by  assault.  Then  the 
train  moved  on  again,  a  caravan  of  the  faithful,  growing 
with  each  station  at  which  it  stopped. 

With  great  difficulty  I  had  squeezed  myself  into  a 
compartment  occupied  chiefly  by  soldiers,  young  Breton 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  77 

conscripts,  shaved  for  the  first  time,  their  hands  still 
rough  from  the  plough,  rustic  even  in  their  uniform. 

They  had  had  the  good  fortune  not  to  be  sent  out  of 
the  country,  and  had  found  their  garrison  close  to  their 
homes.  So  they  were  making  use  of  a  twenty-four 
hours'  leave  to  go  to  Rumengol,  led  no  doubt  by  a 
feeling  of  devotion,  but  also  because  they  knew  that 
there  they  would  meet  their  relations,  their  friends,  and 
very  likely  their  sweethearts.  This  prospect,  added  to 
the  sensation  that  they  had  regained  their  liberty  for  a 
short  time,  had  overexcited  some  of  them.  But  it  was 
a  passing  intoxication  that  soon  evaporated.  With  the 
Breton,  merriment  has  but  a  short  life,  and  dies  away 
almost  as  soon  as  it  is  born.  The  young  men  chatted 
among  themselves,  making  little  arrangements  under 
their  breath,  till  at  last,  invited  by  the  others,  one  of 
them  rose — a  youth,  almost  a  boy.  From  the  delicate 
lines  of  his  face,  from  his  fine  eyes,  the  colour  of  scorched 
grass,  I  guessed  him  to  be  some  mountain  shepherd. 

After  having  reflected  for  a  moment,  he  broke  forth 
with  a  clear  voice,  tuned  to  resound  through  wide  spaces, 
not  into  a  mess-room  ballad,  as  one  might  have  expected, 
but  into  a  strange,  mystical  song  with  a  drooping  rhyme, 
the  well-known  canticle  of  "  Our  Lady  of  Rumengol " — 

"  Lili,  arc'hantet  ho  delliou, 
War  vord  an  dour'zo  er  prajou  ; 

Doue  d'ezho  roas  dillad 

A  skuill  er  meziou  peb  c'hou&z  vad,  ..."  * 

*  "  The  lilies  with  their  silver  leaves 

Border  the  streamlets  in  the  meadows  ; 

God  gave  them  their  fair  clothing, 

Their  sweet  scent  that  is  wafted  far  over  the  land.  .  .  ." 


78  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

The  soldiers  repeated  each  verse,  giving  it  a  mighty 
volume  of  sound,  and  the  song  flew  away  behind  us, 
carried  on  a  current  of  speed,  along  with  the  great  white 
clouds  of  steam  that  lay  on  either  side  of  the  train. 

It  was  a  religious  eclogue,  softly  flowering,  full  of  the 
double  perfume  of  nature  and  piety.  There  in  the  close 
atmosphere  of  the  railway-carriage,  where  we  sat  packed 
together,  without  light  or  air,  it  called  up  visions  of 
shining  meadows,  of  wooded  glades,  of  waters  running 
in  the  depths  of  valleys,  and  of  a  church  with  a  grey 
clock-tower,  embroidered  over  with  yellow  lichens. 

Everything  that  we  saw  in  the  country  through 
which  we  were  passing  added  to  this  impression  of 
rustic  freshness — the  green,  undulating  plain  of  Cor- 
nouailles,  the  rich  splendour  of  its  pasturage,  the  sparkle 
of  its  rivers,  the  blue  rampart  of  its  hills,  through  the 
mist  of  whose  outlines  a  great  shaft  of  gold  fell  from 
the  setting  sun  ;  while  over  all  was  the  light  clear  sky, 
full  of  warm  breezes  and  the  quickening  breath  of 
the  sea. 

We  mount !  we  mount ! 

A  line  of  bare  and  rugged  heights  arises,  crowned 
with  pyramids  of  heaped-up  stones,  the  cairns  of  long- 
past  ages.  A  sheet  of  water,  a  canal,  reflects  their  huge 
profiles  ;  and  on  its  shores  white  houses  stand  peace- 
fully, their  fronts  a  little  darkened  by  the  reflection  of 
the  slate  quarries  that  are  everywhere.  It  is  Chateaulin, 
a  "  sous-prefecture  "  of  Arcadia.  We  cross  the  canal  by 
a  viaduct,  and  for  a  moment  the  eye  follows  the  har- 
monious curves  of  the  valley,  down  which  the  dull  azure 
scar  unwinds  itself  towards  the  virgin  solitudes,  where 
Landevennec  stands  on  its  point  of  land. 


THE  PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  79 

The  Aulne  once  passed,  we  enter  upon  a  new  scene. 
No  more  those  barren  summits,  no  more  the  joyous, 
smiling  aspect  of  southern  Cornouailles.  It  is  a  region 
of  bare  plateaux,  this,  separated  by  deep  ravines,  as 
that  of  Pont-ar-Veuz^n,  or  by  melancholy  combes  like 
Lop^rec.  The  whole  aspect  of  the  country  is  indescrib- 
ably grave  and  solemn,  suggestive  already  of  Leon. 

At  a  small  station  in  the  midst  of  this  bare  country 
the  train  stops,  and  an  official  cries — 

"  Quimerc'h  !  Passengers  for  Rumengol  alight 
here!" 

Then  the  carriages  give  forth  a  moving,  silent, 
many-coloured  multitude.  It  is  nearly  half-past  eight ; 
the  sky,  milky  white,  is  peopled  by  a  procession  of 
clouds,  moving  in  our  direction.  The  pilgrims  scatter 
out  along  the  steep  road,  bordered  here  and  there  by 
inns.  On  a  shelf  stands  the  town  of  Quimerc'h,  moved 
to  this  spot  since  the  opening  of  the  railway — a  few 
miserable  houses  gathered  around  a  new  church.  It 
seems  out  of  place,  this  improvised  village,  standing  on 
granite  steps,  built  for  all  eternity,  in  the  midst  of  the 
great  solemn  landscape. 

Beyond  the  town  the  hill  begins  again,  and  the  arms 
of  a  calvary  stand  out  against  the  deep  sky,  still  lighted 
by  the  sunset.  From  the  foot  of  the  cross  may  be  seen 
one  of  the  fairest  views  in  all  Brittany.  Below,  lies  a 
soft,  seductive  country,  in  whose  depths  a  cluster  of 
pointed  roofs  is  nestling,  a  theatrical  old  town  of  the 
Middle  Ages. 

To  the  left,  grey  fleeting  glimpses  of  distant  hills, 
scarcely  more  than  stationary  clouds,  which  yet  are  the 
crests  of  Menez  Horn  ;   and  still  further,  the  trident, 


80  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

which  the  promontory  of  Crozon  plants  on  the  sea,  the 
three-fingered  hand  with  which  it  probes  the  depths  of 
the  Atlantic. 

To  the  right  is  the  Rade,  called  by  the  Bretons 
"The  Enclosed  Sea,"  an  ocean  arm  reaching  into  a 
bosom  of  ploughed  land  and  forests.  Cold  and  clear  it 
lies,  a  frozen  gleam  of  sleeping  water,  still  quivering  a 
farewell  to  the  vanished  sun  ;  a  place  where  winds  come 
to  die  with  a  last  faint  shudder. 

Near  at  hand,  a  deep  ravine,  full  of  green  shadow, 
and  on  the  far  side  of  it,  the  brown  saddle  of  Hanvec 
land,  bearing  on  its  flank  the  little  Breton  Mecca,  the 
holy  oasis  of  Rumengol. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  81 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  WAS  just  about  to  take  to  the  deep  road  that,  cross- 
ing the  valley,  leads  straight  to  the  sacred  village, 
when  I  met  the  conscript  once  more,  the  good-looking 
shepherd  soldier. 

He  was  seated  on  the  edge  of  the  path,  and  had  just 
taken  off  his  shoes,  tied  them  together  by  their  laces, 
and  turned  his  red  trousers  up  above  his  fine  calves. 
We  exchanged  a  look,  a  few  words,  and  I  complimented 
him  on  his  beautiful  voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  it  is  a  lovely  canticle.  I  learned 
it  when  I  went  to  catechism.  I  like  humming  it  when 
I  am  in  barracks.  There  is  never  very  much  need  to 
press  me  to  sing  it  wherever  I  may  be.  People  who 
come  from  our  part  to  the  Pardon  of  Rumengol,  chant 
it  all  along  the  road.  ...  I  come  from  Saint  Riwal,  you 
know,  in  the  Menez.  It  is  a  poor  place  ;  too  many 
stones  and  furze  bushes,  very  little  rye  and  black  corn. 
But  there  is  never  any  land  so  dear  to  the  heart,  so 
sweet  to  the  eyes,  as  that  in  which  one  is  born." 

His  companions  had  stopped  to  drink  at  one  of 
the  inns,  and  while  we  were  walking  on  together,  he 
explained  to  me  that  he  was  the  fifth  child  in  his  family, 
and  told  me  about  his  father,  his  mother,  and  his  sister, 
who  was  married  to  a  peat-cutter  of  the  Yeun.  He 
spoke  of  his  godmother,  too,  who  was  well  off,  and  had 
promised,  when  he  had  finished  his  service,  to  make  him 


82  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

a  present  of  a  pair  of  oxen,  so  as  to  set  him  up  in 
housekeeping.  For  as  soon  as  he  was  settled  at  home 
again,  he  meant  to  take  a  wife.  He  was  in  love  with 
a  girl  of  Braspartz,  and  though  he  had  never  said  a 
word  to  her  on  the  matter,  he  had  dreamed  of  no  one 
else  for  the  last  three  years.  He  had  met  her  one  day 
at  a  Pardon  held  at  the  ruined  chapel  of  Saint  Kaduan. 
It  was  just  such  an  evening  as  this.  He  had  gone 
there  to  fill  up  the  time,  and  also,  of  course,  from  a  feel- 
ing of  piety.  Even  when  saints  have  lost  their  chapels 
one  ought  to  go  to  their  ft'^es  ! 

There  were  a  good  many  young  people  gathered 
together  on  the  green  sward,  but  he  saw  only  one, 
who  smiled  as  she  looked  at  him  ;  and  in  a  moment 
his  fate  was  sealed — he  had,  as  he  expressed  it, 
"  found  his  star."  Since  then  the  girl  had  remained 
shining  in  the  pure  sky  of  his  memory.  It  was  the 
eternal  poem  of  Breton  love,  sober  and  chaste  as  you 
find  it  in  our  songs,  as  still  it  flourishes  in  the  heart 
of  our  race.  Nothing  is  there  of  passion,  nothing 
disquieting  ;  only  a  tenderness  that  leavens  all  the  soul, 
mingled  with  some  deeper  emotion  of  which  I  cannot 
speak.  They  love  as  they  pray,  these  Bretons — 
thoughtfully,  and  in  silence. 

The  deep  road  through  which  we  were  walking  sank 
between  high,  ruinous  banks,  and  the  branches  joined 
overhead,  forming  a  trellis-work.  In  the  ditches,  water- 
plants  brushed  against  each  other  with  a  clear,  whisper- 
ing sound,  the  tiny,  delicate  song  of  invisible  streamlets. 
There  was  not  a  breath  of  wind  ;  the  very  leaves  slept 
or  rather  hung,  with  the  expectant  air  that  motionless 
things  sometimes  take  upon  them 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  83 

A  few  cows  were  feeding  by  the  roadside,  and  we 
met  a  cart  or  two  crowded  with  peasants,  who  had 
already  finished  their  devotions,  and  were  returning 
homewards.  ...  A  woman  wearing  the  Pleyben  cap, 
and  all  uncovered  at  the  neck,  passed  us,  running,  her 
feet  bleeding,  her  breath  failing  her. 

"  She  must  have  made  some  very  great  vow," 
observed  the  conscript. 

He  had  just  cut  himself  a  pilgrim-staff  from  a  hazel 
tree,  and  was  carefully  stripping  off  the  bark  with  the 
point  of  his  knife,  so  making  a  kind  of  thyrsus,  garlanded 
with  a  thin  green  ribbon,  where  letters  interlaced. 

And  now,  all  at  once,  the  prospect  widens  ;  the  hedges 
open  out  like  the  doors  of  a  church,  and  we  enter  a 
footpath  that  runs  between  sweet-scented  banks  of 
golden  genista.  We  have  left  the  shadows  of  evening 
behind  us,  and  a  mysterious  light,  infinitely  delicate  in 
tone,  remains  in  front,  reflected  from  the  distant  mirror 
of  the  ocean.  In  this  supernatural  radiance,  Rumengol 
stands  forth  with  all  the  clearness  of  an  Eastern  village, 
painted  in  impossible,  fairy-like  colours.  The  spire  of 
the  church  shines  bright  rose,  as  though  carved  from 
the  Red  Stone  of  long  ago,  forming  a  centre  round 
which  all  the  country  lies  prostrate  in  mute  adoration. 
In  truth,  everything  lies,  or  kneels,  in  an  attitude  of 
prayer,  and  from  fields,  moorland,  meadows,  a  soft 
murmur  arises,  moving  one's  heart,  like  the  subtle 
fragrance  of  old,  forgotten  prayers,  so  that  I  find  myself 
humming,  along  with  the  conscript,  those  verses  of  the 
canticle : — 

"  Lili,  arc'hantet  ho  dclliou.  .  .  ." 

Just  then,  from  a  neighbouring  clearing,  came  another 


84  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

refrain  of  quite  a  different  character,  shouted  by  a  com- 
pany of  drunken  sailors — "  bluejackets  "  who  had  come 
to  the  Pardon  by  boat,  and  were  dancing  a  wild  ronde 
arm-in-arm  before  a  sailcloth  drinking-booth — 

"  Entre  Brest  et  Lorient, 
Leste,  leste. 
Entre  Brest  et  Lorient, 
Lestement. 

"  Les  gabiers  de  la  misaine 
Sont  des  filles  de  quinze  ans  .  .  . 

Entre  Brest  et  Lorient 
Leste,  leste.  .  .  ." 

Very  "  leste,"  in  fact,  was  this  jovial  song,  rather 
profane  too,  and  very  much  out  of  place  in  this  solemn 
country,  so  suggestive  of  prayer  and  meditation. 

I  said  something  of  the  kind  to  my  companion, 
thinking  that  the  rude  sounds,  which  even  to  me  seemed 
inopportune,  must  be  still  more  painful  to  him,  with  his 
deep  religious  feelings.  But  he  did  not  seem  in  the 
least  shocked  ;  on  the  contrary,  it  was  he,  the  believer, 
who  gave  me  a  lesson  in  tolerance. 

"Oh,  well,"  said  he,  "they  are  singing  as  well  as 
they  can.  What  does  it  matter  what  they  sing,  if  only 
they  sing  ?  The  Virgin  of  Rumengol  is  not  so  particular 
as  all  that.  She  hears  the  sound  of  their  voices,  and 
that  is  all  she  wants.  They  have  taken  a  great  deal  of 
trouble  to  please  her ;  for  they  have  come  all  the  way 
from  Landevennec  or  Recouvrance  to  pay  her  a  visit 
on  her  own  land,  in  her  own  church.  She  says  to  her- 
self, '  Here  they  are  again,  these  honest  boys  of  the 
navy,'  and  she  is  delighted  to  see  them  once  more,  as 


OUR    I.AI)\     (11     RL.Ml..\c;01. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  85 

well  and  as  good-tempered  as  ever.  As  for  how  they 
behave,  she  cares  nothing  for  that ;  she  is  just  a  real 
mother,  not  a  prude.  You  take  a  good  look  at  her  by- 
and-by,  and  notice  how  she  seems  to  welcome  you,  as 
she  stands  there  in  her  golden  robe.  She  wants  to 
comfort  us,  not  to  scold  or  be  angry  with  us.  She  has 
a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  she  wishes  us  all  to  be  merry  in 
our  hearts.  Her  best  beloved  are  those  who  bring  her 
some  song  or  other,  for  she  loves  songs  ;  that  is  why  her 
ft'ie  is  called  the  Pardon  of  the  Singers  ! " 

And  so,  bold  sailors,  go  on  your  way  cheerfully, 
and  may  our  Lady  of  Rumengol  keep  you  happy  ! 

As  we  neared  the  booth  the  singers  noticed  us,  and 
called  out  to  the  soldier — 

"  Hello,  Red  Breeches  ;  come  and  have  a  drink  !  " 

A  young  girl  in  a  velvet  bodice  was  pouring  cider 
out  of  a  full  jar,  and  "  Red  Breeches  "  left  me,  to  sit 
down  under  the  night  sky  with  that  party  of  tipsy  blue- 
jackets. As  I  went  on  down  the  path,  the  endless  song, 
that  had  stopped  for  a  moment,  broke  out  once  more 
louder  than  ever  ;  only  now,  among  the  drunken  voices 
of  the  sailors,  another  sounded,  rising  high  above  them, 
a  pure  chorister's  voice,  wonderfully  true  and  sweet, 
which  at  each  repetition  of  the  refrain  soared  aloft  like 
a  rocket,  scattering  notes  into  space,  clear  as  a  lark's 
song : — 

"  Entre  Brest  et  Lorient, 
Leste,  leste  ; 
Entre  Brest  et  Lorient, 
Lestement.  .  .  ." 

As  the  distance  increased,  I  was  no  longer  able  to 
hear  the  words   distinctly,   which   no   doubt   was   the 


86  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

reason  that,  as  the  song  grew  fainter  and  more  faint,  I 
found  a  certain  charm  about  it  that  increased  as  I  pro- 
ceeded, transfiguring  and  idealizing  it.  Now  it  rhymed 
my  steps,  rocked  my  soul,  led  me  to  holy  dreams.  Had 
it  ceased  altogether,  the  poetry  of  that  sweet  evening 
would  not  have  seemed  so  perfect. 

The  shelters  of  coarse  sacking  were  growing  more 
and  more  numerous  along  the  edge  of  the  road,  and  in 
a  few  of  them  burned  little  tallow  candles  set  in  glasses. 
On  the  other  side  of  the  river  that  wound  along  the 
bottom  of  the  valley  they  formed  quite  a  street,  as  they 
mounted  the  opposite  slope.  The  meadow  mists 
wrapped  them  round,  rising  into  the  air  like  a  pro- 
cession of  spirits,  trailing  long  muslin  robes  behind 
them.  Within,  people  were  talking  briskly,  embracing 
each  other  across  the  tables,  exchanging  a  thousand 
demonstrations  of  friendship.  There  were  little  groups, 
too,  of  men,  stooping  over  fire-baskets  to  light  their  tiny 
pipes ;  when  a  jet  of  flame  shone  on  their  faces,  their 
freshly  shaven  chins,  they  broke  together  into  a  great 
laugh  that  made  the  echoes  resound  in  the  far-off  depths 
of  the  night.  On  the  footpath  the  crowd  was  already 
solid.  Here  and  there  a  space  was  left  in  the  moving 
throng,  where  some  beggar,  seated  on  the  ground  like  a 
tailor  or  Buddha,  bellowed  his  "  complainte"  as  he  shook 
his  amulets,  a  whole  bunch  of  which  hung  from  his 
neck.  Every  one  moved  aside  for  him  with  super- 
stitious reverence,  throwing  a  piece  of  money  into  his 
begging-bowl.  They  say  that  the  poor  of  Rumengol 
form  quite  a  caste  by  themselves,  a  race  endowed  with 
most  extraordinary  powers.  The  spirit  of  the  ages 
dwells  in  them  ;  they  move  freely  about  in  the  realms 


THE  PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  87 

of  the  past,  and  reach  far  forward  into  the  mysteries  of 
the  future.  There  are  some  among  them  who  have 
lived  through  many  incarnations,  and  whose  memory 
has  grown  to  be  a  storehouse  of  the  greatest  secrets  of 
the  ancients.  The  vanished  race  of  magicians  and 
enchanters  has  bequeathed  their  position  to  them,  along 
with  their  arts  and  formulae.  They  know  how  to  cure 
with  a  word,  to  slay  with  a  look  ;  no  luck  is  there  for 
him  who  fails  to  pay  them  the  respect  which  is  their  due. 

People  will  tell  you  the  story  of  a  peasant  of  Laz, 
who,  having  hit  one  of  these  beggars,  was  seven  years 
before  he  could  return  to  his  cottage  in  the  mountains. 
Whichever  path  he  took  always  led  him  back  to 
Rumengol,  and  he  walked  so  far  that  at  last  he  had 
no  flesh  on  the  soles  of  his  feet.  When  at  length,  the 
charm  having  come  to  an  end,  he  found  himself  before 
his  own  door,  his  wife  was  just  about  to  have  a  baby  by 
a  second  husband. 

And  they  will  tell  you  the  following  story,  which  is 
no  less  curious  : — 

One  evening,  not  very  long  ago,  a  young  girl  was 
returning  to  Logonna,  from  the  Pardon.  For  a  wonder 
it  began  to  rain,*  so  she  opened  her  umbrella.  Suddenly, 
a  man  rose  up  from  the  ditch,  a  very  old  man,  whose 
back  was  bent  beneath  a  great  harvest  of  years.  He 
was  dressed  in  sordid  rags,  yet  on  one  of  the  fingers 
of  his  left  hand  shone  an  emerald. 

"  Young  lady,"  said  he,  addressing  the  girl,  "  if  you 
will  kindly  allow  me  to  walk  under  your  umbrella,  I 
shall  reach  my  home  without  being  soaked  to  the  skin. 

*  I  was  told  that  "  It  is  always  fine  for  the  Pardon  of 
Rumengol."— (F.M.G.) 


6S  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

I  live  only  a  pipe's  distance  from  here,*  you  will  not 
have  to  put  up  with  me  for  long." 

He  spoke  so  humbly  that  the  young  girl  was  touched. 
"  Come,  and  welcome  !  "  said  she. 
So  they  went  along  side  by  side,  under  the  shower 
that  now  fell  with  double  violence,  the  girl  sheltering 
the  old  man  as  well  as  she  could.  In  spite  of  his  great 
age  he  walked  at  a  good  pace,  easily  and  lightly,  as 
though  the  wind-beaten  lappets  of  his  vest  served  him 
in  place  of  wings. 

"You  are  a  pretty  child,"  said  he,  "and  what  is  of 
more  consequence,  you  seem  to  be  a  good  child.  I  had 
a  daughter  once  who  was  very  much  like  you,  about  your 
age  and  height,  and  like  you  also  she  had  fair  hair,  the 
colour  of  ripe  corn.  I  loved  her  with  all  my  soul.  But 
she  was  not  good  as  you  are,  the  thirst  for  forbidden 
things  inflamed  her  heart,  her  eyes,  her  lips.  She  was 
the  sorrow  of  my  life ;  she  is  my  shame  through  all 
eternity." 

He  was  silent,  and  down  his  sad  face  the  tears  went 
coursing.  Then  fear  took  hold  on  the  girl,  as  though 
she  were  in  the  presence  of  some  supernatural  being. 
After  a  moment  he  spoke  again. 

"  I  should  like  to  give  you  this  emerald  by  way  of 
thanks  ;  but  it  was  once  hers,  and  would  only  bring 
you  bad  luck.  Moreover,  the  blessing  of  our  Lady  of 
Rumengol  is  upon  you  ;  that  is  worth  more  than  all  the 
gems  in  the  world."  Then,  pausing  near  an  opening  in 
the  hedge,  he  added,  "  My  way  lies  here ;  may  the 
Angel  of  Safe  Journeys  go  with  you  ! " 

She  saw  him  disappear  into  the  shadows,  and  heard 
*  The  time  it  takes  to  smoke  a  pipe. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  89 

his  heavy  sobs.  Almost  at  the  same  moment,  beyond 
the  misty  coast-Hne,  a  great  white  form  arose  in  the 
direction  of  the  sea.  Quickly  the  girl  closed  her  eyelids, 
and  crossed  herself  three  times,  to  drive  the  evil  in- 
fluence of  Mary  Morgan  away  from  her  and  hers. 

On  reaching  home,  she  told  her  friends  of  this 
strange  incident  of  her  pilgrimage,  and  after  the  elders 
had  kept  a  constrained  silence  for  some  time,  one  of 
them  murmured — 

"  Before  beginning  the  evening  prayer,  let  us  say 
a  De  Profundis  for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of  King 
Gralon." 

One  can  easily  understand  that  legends  such  as 
these — and  there  is  a  whole  cycle  of  them — add  not 
a  little  to  the  notion  that  the  beggars  of  Rumengol  are 
sacred,  mystical  beings.  And  then,  too,  these  "  seekers 
of  alms  "  are  seen  in  that  particular  place  only  once  a 
year  ;  they  come  from  Heaven  knows  where,  from  all 
kinds  of  districts,  lying  at  great  distances  apart,  and 
consequently  a  mystery  encompasses  them,  leaving 
plenty  of  scope  for  fancies  of  every  description.  I 
have  met  women  of  Tregor,  at  Pardons,  thirty,  even 
forty  leagues  from  home — women  whose  faces  I  have 
known  from  childhood.  After  the  lapse  of  many  years 
I  have  found  them  again,  just  such  as  I  remembered 
them,  without  one  extra  wrinkle,  their  skin  blackened 
and  smoke-dried  as  the  skin  of  a  mummy,  their  thin, 
pardon-going  legs  still  quick  and  active,  their  bloodshot 
eyes  shining  with  the  same  obstinate,  silent  fanaticism. 

Finally,  there  is  not  one  of  these  Rumengol  beggars 
who  has  not  his  own  particular  style  of  beauty.  Look- 
ing at  them,  one  is  almost  forced  to  believe  that  the 


90  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

brotherhood  of  rogues  and  vagabonds  only  send  their 
most  remarkable  and  striking  specimens,  their  most 
interesting,  perfect  types,  to  this  Pardon.  I  have  seen 
some,  wrapping  themselves  in  their  tatters  with  the 
unconscious  majesty  of  barbaric  chieftains. 

I  remember  to  have  stood  before  one,  lost  in  admira- 
tion. He  looked  a  shepherd  of  men.  He  was  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  the  fountain  at  the  entrance  to  the 
village.  His  legs  were  crossed,  his  body  bent  forward, 
and  his  hands  rested  on  a  chestnut  staff  thick  as  the 
trunk  of  a  young  tree.  The  bare  crown  of  his  head 
shone  like  a  brazen  mirror  in  the  light  of  the  stars. 
From  his  temples  to  his  shoulders  fell  locks  of  fine, 
yellow-white  hair,  half  moonlight,  half  sunshine ;  and 
in  this  frame  was  a  profile  statuesque  as  that  of  some 
ancient  image,  arched  nose,  prominent  cheek-bones,  grey 
eyebrows  shadowing  bright,  eager  eyes,  lips  lost  beneath 
the  soft  flow  of  a  silver  beard.  His  bowl,  placed  on  the 
ground  at  his  feet,  seemed  waiting  rather  for  offerings 
than  for  alms.  His  whole  personality  inspired  awe  in 
the  beholder,  and  I  noticed  that  the  pilgrims,  as  they 
made  their  libations  at  the  fountain,  showed  a  venera- 
tion for  him  mingled  with  fear,  as  though  he  had  been, 
if  not  the  god,  at  least  the  guardian  priest  of  the 
fountain. 

"  Who  is  that  poor  old  man  ?  "  I  asked  of  a  passer-by. 

"  Neither  I  nor  any  one  else  can  tell  you  that.  He 
is  called  Potr  he  groc'hen  gawr,  the  man  with  the  goat- 
skin, because  of  that  half-dressed  hide  which  you  see 
over  his  back,  giving  him  a  look  of  Saint  John  the 
Baptist.  Nobody  knows  anything  more  about  him,  and 
probably  no  one  ever  will,  for  either  he  is,  or  pretends  to 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  SINGERS  91 

be,  so  deaf  that  it  is  quite  impossible  to  question  him. 
There  are  some  who  say  he  is  a  saint,  and  some  a 
sorcerer  ;  the  first  are  led  away  by  the  fact  that  he  can 
repeat  the  Mass  in  Latin  as  well  as  any  bishop ;  the 
latter  say  what  they  do  because  no  one  knows  anything 
against  him ;  he  does  not  even  get  drunk  like  his 
brethren  with  the  coppers  he  collects.  He  appears 
regularly  on  the  eve  of  the  Pardon,  always  seats  him- 
self in  the  same  place,  passes  the  night  as  you  see  him 
now,  whatever  the  weather  may  be,  and  next  morning, 
having  saluted  the  Virgin,  takes  his  departure  on  his 
Wandering  Jew's  journey  across  the  country." 


92  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  only  street  of  Rumengol,  bordered  on  one  side 
by  a  dozen  houses,  on  the  other  by  the  church- 
yard wall,  was  blocked  with  booths  as  I  entered  it — open 
stalls,  where,  in  the  light  of  lamps  or  torches,  rosaries 
sparkled  along  with  medals,  rings,  and  glittering  favours  ; 
while  sacred  pictures  and  cloth  scapularies  waved  softly 
in  the  evening  breeze.  Troops  of  peasant  women  were 
standing  in  ecstasy  before  these  marvels,  but  the  men 
made  a  circle  round  the  game  of  Mil  ha  kaz  (a  kind  of 
roulette),  very  popular  in  Brittany,  while  others  joined  in 
the  rough  exercise  of  "  Turk's  head." 

It  was  no  easy  matter  for  me  to  make  my  way 
through  all  these  stationary  people,  for  a  Breton,  when 
once  he  has  taken  up  a  position,  never  moves,  unless 
absolutely  pushed  aside.  And  this  is  especially  the  case 
at  fair-time  ;  he  then  seems  as  though  carved  out  of 
stone,  and  any  one  can  walk  right  over  him  without  his 
budging  an  inch. 

However,  by  means  of  working  steadily  away  with 
my  elbows,  I  finished  by  reaching  the  inn  that  had  been 
recommended  to  me.  It  was  that  which  stands  at  the 
end  of  the  village,  a  couple  of  steps  from  the  church. 
Its  narrow  granite  windows  were  blazing  forth  from  its 
dark,  low-browed  face.  A  fiery,  purple  glow  lighted  the 
ground-floor,  and  quick  flashes  came  and  went,  dancing 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  9S 

and  sparkling  like  meteors  over  the  joists  of  the  roof. 
In  the  chimney  the  flame  grew  into  an  immense  red 
sheaf,  and  from  the  depths  of  the  saucepans  came  heavy, 
rapid  sounds,  like  the  rush  of  a  rising  tide. 

In  this  furnace  of  a  place  I  found  about  fifty  human 
beings,  crowded  one  upon  another,  supping  to  their  hearts' 
content,  never  dreaming  of  taking  their  food  out  into 
the  fresh  night  to  eat  it  on  the  neighbouring  banks. 

A  few  of  them  even  had  to  sit  on  the  floor,  their 
plates  between  their  knees,  but  they  were  not  in  the 
least  put  out  or  uncomfortable.  A  pilgrim  is  not  a 
commercial  traveller.  He  just  sits  down  where  he  finds 
room,  takes  what  is  given  to  him,  and  pays  what  he  is 
asked  with  a  cheerful  "  Thank  you." 

Well,  I  myself  have  come  to  Rumengol  as  a  literary 
pilgrim,  and  am  not  inclined  to  be  exacting,  but  I  do 
like  the  end  of  a  form  to  sit  upon,  and  I  prefer  it  near 
some  hole  through  which  I  can  breathe. 

"  Go  upstairs,"  says  the  hostess  to  me. 

A  low  room,  with  no  other  furniture  than  a  table  of 
planks,  resting  on  empty  casks  by  way  of  trestles.  In 
order  to  reach  their  plates  the  guests  are  obliged  to 
remain  standing.  Those  who  have  finished,  or  who 
have  not  yet  got  their  food,  fill  up  the  time  of  waiting 
by  monotonous  games  of  cards.  Whenever  a  fist  falls 
on  the  ill-adjusted  planks  the  plates  tip  up,  and  all  the 
glasses  give  a  jump.  There  is  a  loud  sound  of  talking, 
and  a  sour  smell  of  spilt  cider  greets  one's  nose  on 
entering,  for  already  signs  of  drunkenness  are  in  the  air. 

The  little  servant  who  has  been  sent  with  me  pushes 
open  a  door  at  the  end  of  the  room,  and  shows  me  a 
retreat  where  there  is  a  real  table,  and  (God  forgive  me  !) 


94  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

chairs.  Here,  at  last,  everything  is  peaceful  and  quiet. 
The  lattice  opens  over  a  field,  beyond  which  lies  the 
valley,  covered  with  a  great  bridal  veil  that  the  mys- 
terious water-sprites  have  spread  over  the  poplars  and 
willows.  I  should  never  have  dreamed  of  finding  such 
a  quiet  corner,  and  am  just  about  to  fall  to,  on  the  plate 
of  stew  that  smokes  before  me,  when  a  loud  snore  comes 
from  one  of  the  dark  corners  of  the  room,  warning  me 
that  I  am  to  have  both  company  and  music  at  my 
dinner, 

"  Oh,  it  is  nothing,"  whispers  the  girl,  "  It  is  only 
the  Song  Man,  He  laid  himself  down  there  to  get  a 
nap  ;  he  won't  trouble  you  in  the  least ; "  and  after  this 
lucid  explanation  off  she  runs. 

But  come,  think  I,  it  would  be  as  well  to  have  a  look 
at  this  Song  Man !  so  I  make  my  way  to  the  side  of  the 
sleeper. 

He  is  lying  at  full  length  on  the  floor,  face  to  the 
wall,  his  head  on  a  knapsack  bursting  with  papers. 
Now,  either  I  am  very  much  mistaken,  or  I  have  seen 
this  same  old  calfskin  knapsack  before.  A  flood  of 
memories  rushes  over  me  at  the  very  sight  of  it,  calling 
up  before  my  eyes  Tregor,  my  native  land.  Yes,  yes,  it 
must  be  he  ! 

I  lower  the  candle  towards  the  man's  face  ;  he  moves 
a  little,  and  with  a  cry  I  recognize  him — 

"  Yann  Ar  Minouz  !  " 

No  doubt  the  strange-sounding  name  means  nothing 
to  you,  but  remember  it  nevertheless,  for  it  is  that  of 
our  last  native  Bard.  Alas !  I  ought  to  say,  It  WAS — 
for  Yann  Ar  Minouz  is  no  longer  among  us.  I  saw  by 
the  papers  that  he  died  at  Pleumeur-Gautier,  nearly  a 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  95 

year  ago,  in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  his  age.  Surely  it 
will  not  be  out  of  place  here,  if  I  speak  of  him  at  some 
length,  for  he  was  the  favourite  rhymster  of  all  the 
regular  Rumengol  pilgrims  ;  they  still  mourn  him.  In 
the  words  of  an  old  woman,  who  never  passes  my  door 
without  knocking — 

"  He  shone  out  among  other  singers  like  a  gold 
piece  among  coarse  halfpence." 

But  it  is  round  about  Treguier,  Lannion,  Paimpol, 
that  he  has  left  the  saddest  void. 

With  him  died  the  muse  of  wandering  poets,  a  good 
girl,  rather  Bohemian  in  her  tastes,  not  particularly 
neat  in  her  dress,  and  scarcely  choice  enough  about  the 
selection  of  her  subjects  ;  but  bold  and  industrious,  with 
a  quick  foot  and  ready  tongue.  It  was  her  cheerful, 
nasal  voice  that  led  the  pilgrims  all  across  the  peninsula. 

Heaven  preserve  me  from  introducing  Yann  Ar 
Minouz  to  you  as  the  equal  of  the  Liwarc'h-hens,  or 
the  Taliesinns  of  our  land  !  *  He  would  not  wish  mc  to 
do  so,  he  who  so  readily  exaggerated  the  pretensions  of 
others. 

His  muse  was  not  one  that  flew  very  high,  neither 
was  he  altogether  original.  But  if  he  did  not  revive  the 
school  of  great  bards  in  our  midst,  he  at  least  prolonged 
its  death  agony.  He  spoke  of  himself  as  a  Bard,  inno- 
cently enough,  having  chosen  the  word  by  chance,  with- 
out going  into  the  question  of  its  real  meaning  ;  and  a 
Bard  in  truth  he  was,  both  from  taste  and  temperament. 
He  often  used  to  say  to  me — 

"  I  have  never  been  anything  but  a  singer  of  songs, 
and  I  shall  be  so  as  long  as  I  live.     People  have  wanted 
*  Celebrated  Celtic  bards. 


96  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

to  teach  me  all  sorts  of  trades,  but  I  was  made  wrong 
for  everything  except  to  be  a  maker  of  verses  ;  that  is 
the  only  thing  I  really  enjoy,  the  only  thing  I  can  do 
properly.  When  I  was  a  child  I  was  set  to  look  after 
cows,  but  one  morning  when  a  great  breeze  was  blowing 
I  left  the  beasts  to  take  care  of  themselves,  and  set  off 
to  see  where  the  wind  came  from.  That  was  the  year 
after  my  first  communion.  Ever  since  then  I  have 
spent  my  time  running  about  the  country.  I  eat  when 
any  one  gives  me  anything,  and  I  sleep  where  they  let 
me.  But  I  prefer  the  inn  of  La  Belle  Etoile  to  any 
closed-in  house,  just  as  I  like  the  singing  of  birds  better 
than  the  talking  of  men." 

Being  near  Pleumeur  last  vacation,  I  went  to  see  his 
widow,  Marie-Frangoise  Le  Moullec,  and  we  had  a  long 
talk  about  the  dead  man,  lying  so  near  us,  under  the 
shadow  of  the  church  in  the  peaceful  graveyard. 

Yann  first  saw  the  light  at  L6zardrieux,  and  his 
father,  who  could  read,  was  considered  so  highly  educated, 
that  beside  being  a  weaver,  he  filled  the  position  of 
village  schoolmaster.  His  daily  task  of  weaving  over, 
he  gathered  round  him  a  dozen  little  boys  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  instructed  them  ;  that  is  to  say,  he  taught 
them  their  catechism,  and  how  to  find  their  places  in  the 
different  services  of  the  prayer-book,  cramming  their 
heads  meanwhile  with  old  ballads  that  set  forth  the 
failings  of  former  noblemen,  or  celebrated  the  virtues 
of  local  saints.  This  elementary  style  of  education 
suited  Yann  to  a  marvel.  He  made  such  rapid  pro- 
gress that  his  father  thought  to  make  him  a  priest, 
and  sent  him  to  Pleumeur,  where  there  was  a  regular 
certificated  schoolmaster.     So  Yann  was  initiated  into 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  SINGERS  97 

French,  and  even  a  little  Latin,  But  he  soon  had 
enough  of  that  kind  of  life ;  no  one  sang  Breton 
songs  at  the  Pleumeur  school,  so  he  ran  away,  and 
one  fine  morning  his  father  found  him  asleep  in  the 
stable. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  inquired  angrily. 
"You  had  all  gone  to  bed  when  I  came  home  last 
night,  and  I  didn't  like  to  wake  you." 
"  You  have  a  holiday  to-day,  then  ?  " 
"No,  but  I  am  not  going  back  there ;  I  don't  like  it. 
It  you  make  me  go  I  shall  only  run  away  again,  and 
you  won't  see  me  any  more." 

They  did  everything  they  could  think  of  to  move 
the  child,  but  in  vain.  Threats,  blows,  entreaties,  were 
not  of  the  least  avail. 

"  Well,"  said  his  parents,  "  at  all  events,  you  shall 
earn  your  living  ;  "  and  they  hired  him  out  to  a  farmer  of 
Saint  Drien.  From  dawn  to  dusk  he  was  set  to  look 
after  cows,  bulls,  and  heifers,  in  the  midst  of  the  bound- 
less country.  But,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  he  passed  the 
time  sitting  between  a  couple  of  gorse  bushes,  listening 
to  a  mysterious  bird  that  had  begun  singing  in  his  head, 
or  picturing  imaginary  landscapes,  to  which  so  strong  a 
longing  drew  him,  that  he  got  pins  and  needles  in  his 
legs  with  thinking  about  them.  It  was  there,  in  the 
quiet  of  that  melancholy  moorland,  that  the  spirit  of 
primitive  poetry  came  to  him  for  the  first  time.*  He 
was  about  twelve  years  old  when  he  composed  his  first 
poem,  the  same  that  he  afterwards  rewrote  and  called 

*  The  Rector  of  Pleumeur,  M.  Barra,  gave  him  his  first  lessons 
in  Breton  metre.  "  Be  a  Bard,"  said  this  old  man  to  Yann,  "after 
that  of  a  priest,  I  know  of  no  more  delightful  calling." 

H 


98  THE  LAND   OF  PARDONS 

"  Confession  de  Jean  Gamin."     It  ran  something  like 
this  :— 

"  I  am  an  impudent,  naughty  little  boy, 
Caring  for  nothing  save  playing  with  my  peg-top, 
I  keep  away  from  school  as  much  as  ever  I  can, 
And  go  bird's-nesting,  fighting,  and  scrambling  about. 

"  My  vest  is  torn,  my  stockings  are  in  rags, 
As  for  my  trousers,  they  will  scarcely  hold  together  ; 
Through  using  it  to  beat  my  friends  with,  my  hat  no  longer  has 

a  brim, 
So  when  I  go  home,  there  is  not  much  for  me  to  expect  save 

whippings. 

"  As  to  supper,  alas  !  I  often  have  to  go  to  bed  without  it, 
As  a  punishment  for  all  my  sins, 
Yet  I  am  never  sorry  ;  I  grow  worse  and  worse  ; 
Old  Blunderer  is  the  name  with  which  I  honour  my  father. 

"  My  little  mother  is  tender,  and  tries  to  make  excuses  for  me, 
But  instead  of  being  grateful  to  her,  and  saving  her  trouble, 
I  call  her  RED  FACE  !  that  is  all  the  thanks  I  give  her. 
I  think  there  is  no  need  to  add  that  I  am  a  regular  Good  for 
Nothing." 

He  grew  out  of  these  rude  ways  and  naughty  tricks 
as  he  became  older,  but  he  never  got  rid  of  the  un- 
disciplined nature  that  was  born  with  him.  His  widow, 
who  did  not  exactly  praise  all  his  ways,  remembered 
him  as  a  very  sweet-tempered  man,  unfailingly  amiable 
under  ordinary  circumstances,  but  quite  incapable  of 
governing  himself,  and  impatient  of  all  control.  He 
never  did  anything  by  halves.  Sometimes  he  began  to 
weep  bitterly  without  anybody  knowing  why.  He  loved 
to  be  mysterious,  never  telling  his  thoughts,  and  dis- 
liking to  be  questioned.  But  perhaps  the  most  striking 
thing  about  him  was  his  love  of  wandering.     To  the 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS  99 

day  of  his  death  he  had  the  restless,  adventurous  spirit 
of  a  young  colt,  and  as  soon  as  anybody  put  the  least 
restraint  upon  him,  he  reared.  We  have  seen  how  he 
behaved  to  the  farmer  who  scolded  him  for  dreaming, 
instead  of  looking  after  the  beasts.  The  herd  came 
home  in  the  evening  without  their  keeper,  and  Yann 
was  seen  no  more  in  Saint  Drien  for  ten  long  years. 

The  village  had  altered  greatly  in  appearance  during 
that  time ;  the  greater  number  of  the  cottages  had 
become  houses,  had  exchanged  their  clay  walls  for 
stone,  their  thatched  roofs  for  slate.  Only  one  had 
remained  the  same,  and  it  was  to  its  window  Yann 
hurried,  never  doubting  that  Marie-Frangoise,  his  little 
friend  of  former  days,  would  be  there  waiting  for  him. 
He  found  her,  not  such  as  he  had  left  her,  but  such  as 
he  loved  to  find  her,  and  they  married  before  God  and 
the  Government.  The  day  after  the  wedding,  the  wife 
said  to  her  husband — 

"  Yann,  my  love,  we  must  begin  to  think  about  the 
future.  There  is  just  one  little  cloud  upon  our  happi- 
ness, it  seems  to  me  :  you  have  no  occupation,  you 
know.  Now,  I  am  a  very  good  spinner,  how  nice  it 
would  be  if  you  would  become  a  flax-beater !  "  .  .  . 

So  Yann  took  to  beating  flax,  and  for  a  whole  year 
worked  most  conscientiously.  Sometimes,  sudden  fits 
of  sadness  clouded  his  brow,  but  they  soon  melted 
away.  While  working  he  composed,  and  when  Sunday 
arrived,  as  they  came  from  Mass,  he  would  settle  him- 
self down  in  the  inn  parlour,  with  two  or  three  friends, 
and  read  them  his  new  couplets.  Very  sober  he  was, 
never  drinking  anything  stronger  than  coffee ;  very 
religious,  too,  a  regular  attendant  at  all  the  services. 


100  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

At  the  end  of  a  year,  Marie-Francoise  le  Moullec 
presented  him  with  a  little  daughter,  whom  he  named 
after  the  blessed  Virgin,  and  began  adoring  to  such  a 
degree  that  it  almost  seemed  as  though  his  mind  were 
affected.  From  that  time  he  became  less  industrious, 
passing  long  hours  in  ecstasy  beside  the  child's  cradle. 
His  wife  tried  to  argue  with  him,  but  it  was  no  use ; 
he  let  her  talk,  and  went  on  as  before. 

"  Yann,"  said  she,  one  day,  "  you  are  too  fond  of  the 
little  one  ;  children  who  are  loved  too  much,  live  too 
little." 

She  hoped,  by  reminding  him  of  this  old  saying,  to 
recall  him  to  a  calmer  and  more  reasonable  frame  of 
mind,  but  it  had  a  contrary  effect.  From  that  moment, 
Yann  never  left  his  little  girl.  Even  his  nights  were 
passed  listening  to  her  breathing  as  she  slept,  and  all 
day  long,  when  the  weather  was  fine,  he  carried  her  in 
his  arms,  strained  close  to  his  bosom  in  a  wild  embrace, 
and,  till  the  first  dews  of  night,  bore  her  over  field  and 
moorland,  singing  her  all  manner  of  lovely  things  that 
he  never  wrote  about.  He  hoped  that  by  so  doing  he 
should  drive  away  the  bad  luck  with  which  his  wife 
had  threatened  him,  but  he  failed.  When  she  was 
six  years  old  the  child  died.  The  father's  despair 
was  as  infinite  as  his  love.  They  had  to  take  the  little 
body  by  force  from  his  arms,  and  when  the  funeral 
was  over,  the  mother  was  left  to  go  back  to  the  house 
alone. 

"  I  can  never  come  home  again,"  said  Yann,  "  till 
my  dead  girl  returns  to  me." 

He  felt  quite  sure  that  she  really  would  come  to  life 
again ;  the  Virgin,  her  godmother,  would  perform  this 


CHII.DRKN    OF    VANNKS 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        101 

miracle  on  her  behalf.  So  he  started  travelling  about 
the  country,  while  waiting  for  that  happy  day,  well 
pleased  at  heart  to  take  up  his  wandering  life  once 
more.  It  was  such  a  relief  to  be  without  the  weight  of 
sedentary  work,  to  stretch  his  sparrow's  wings  again  in 
the  free,  open  air. 

As  he  wandered  about  the  roads,  his  sorrow  fled 
away.  Poetry  soon  succeeded  in  comforting  him,  and 
his  reputation  as  a  rhymster  spread  far.  People  came 
to  ask  for  verses,  and  he  undertook  all  with  equal  readi- 
ness, no  matter  what  the  subject :  melancholy  poems  for 
unfortunate  lovers,  satires  against  miserly  masters  or 
faithless  maidens.  But  what  he  really  preferred  was  to 
sing  the  praises  of  the  great  Breton  saints,  or  celebrate  the 
various  local  festivals,  enumerating  at  the  same  time  the 
wonderful  virtues  of  the  sacred  fountains.  No  Pardon 
was  complete  without  Yann.  The  blind  Bard  of  Ker- 
suliet,  Yann  Ar  Guenn,*  who  had  given  up  his  calling, 
heard  with  joy  that  his  successor  had  appeared,  and  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  meet  him.  No  time  did  Yann  Ar 
Minouz  lose  in  answering  to  the  call  of  him  he  always 
spoke  of  as  "  My  godfather."  The  interview  took  place 
in  the  old  man's  cottage  by  the  water's  edge,  at  the  foot 
of  the  Yellow  Rock  at  Treguier.  There  for  some  years 
the  blind  Bard  had  lived  the  life  of  a  hermit,  tied  to  his 
oak  chair  by  the  infirmities  of  old  age,  with  no  other 
amusement  than  to  listen  to  the  plick-plock  of  the  oars, 
as  the  heavy  barges  of  seaweed  or  sand  went  up  with 
the  tide  ;  waiting,  to  use  his  words,  "  for  the  silent  coming 
of  the  Boat  of  Souls,"  in  which,  before  very  long,  he 

*  An  account  of  this  popular  poet  will  be  found  in  the  intro- 
duction to  "  Soniou  Breiz-Izel,"  p.  xxiv. 


102  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

would  travel  to  the  other  world.  It  was  touching,  that 
interview — ^even  solemn ;  after  long  years,  Yann  Ar 
Minouz  could  never  speak  of  it  without  emotion. 

"  When  I  pushed  open  the  door,"  he  would  say, 
"  I  found  myself  in  a  narrow  room,  as  dark  as  the  devil. 
In  the  chimney  at  the  far  end,  a  turf  fire  was  burning 
silently,  and  out  of  the  darkness  came  the  broken  voice 
of  an  old  woman,  asking  me,  sharply,  what  I  wanted.  I 
answered  that  I  was  Yann  Ar  Minouz,  and  that  I  had 
come  to  pay  my  respects  to  the  Father  of  Songs,  the 
illustrious  Dall  Ar  Guenn.*  Then,  all  in  a  moment, 
the  old  wife  changed  her  tone,  and  spoke  to  me  quite 
sweetly. 

"  '  God  bless  you,  friend  Yann,'  said  she ; '  my  husband 
has  been  longing  to  meet  you.  I  am  Marie  Petitbon. 
You  shall  taste  my  crepes  presently ;  they  are  as  good, 
in  their  way,  as  Dall  Ar  Guenn's  verses.  .  .  .  Come  to 
the  fire,  and  let  my  poor  old  man  embrace  you,  as  he 
cannot  see  you.' 

"  Ah  !  she  was  a  good  talker,  I  promise  you,  and  one 
who  didn't  keep  her  tongue  in  her  apron  pocket.  But 
while  she  entertained  me  with  her  pretty  speeches,  I  did 
nothing  but  feast  my  eyes  on  her  husband,  whose  great 
bony  form  I  began  to  make  out,  seated  as  though 
folded  up,  at  one  corner  of  the  hearth.  When  he  turned 
on  me  his  majestic  face,  framed  by  hair  white  as  the 
hoar-frost,  I  noticed  the  motionless  eyelids,  that  gave 
him  an  almost  superhuman  dignity.     I  felt  as  though  I 

*  In  Brittany  it  is  usual  to  mention  the  afflicted  thus  by  their 
affliction — Dall  Ar  Guenn,  Blind  Le  Guenn,  Tort  Ar  Eonniec, 
Lame  Le  Bonniec.  It  is  not  considered  in  the  least  disre- 
spectful. 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  SINGERS        103 

were  looking  at  the  Eternal  Father  Himself,  and  was 
just  about  to  fall  on  my  knees,  when  he  stretched  out 
his  wrinkled  hand  toward  me. 

" '  Sing ! '  said  he  ;  and  I  sang  for  two  hours.  If  I 
showed  any  sign  of  stopping,  he  exclaimed,  '  Dalc'h- 
ta,  mab ;  dalc'h-ta '  ['  Go  on,  my  son ;  go  on ! '], 
and  I  could  see  by  his  face  that  he  was  really  pleased. 
As  soon  as  I  had  finished,  I  heard  him  murmur, 
'  Come,  come,  now  I  can  die  in  peace  ; '  and  drawing  me 
towards  him,  he  blessed  me.  I  can  tell  you  I  felt  as 
delighted  as  some  missionary,  who  has  just  been  conse- 
crated by  his  bishop." 

There  is  no  doubt  that  this  consecration  accounted 
for  a  good  m.any  of  the  lofty  illusions  as  to  the  quality 
of  his  poetry,  with  which  Yann  consoled  himself  as  long 
as  he  lived.  He  had  a  very  high  ideal  of  his  art,  and 
was  fairly  satisfied  with  the  way  in  which  he  expressed 
it.  The  workmen  at  Le  Goffic's  old  printing-house  at 
Lannion  still  remember  the  condescending  and  superior 
air  with  which  this  ragged  Bard  would  place  on  the 
counter  his  extraordinary  manuscripts.  I  have  a  few 
specimens  of  them  in  my  possession.  The  paper  has 
been  picked  up  God  knows  where ;  it  looks  as  if  it  had 
come  out  of  some  dust-heap.  Margins  of  daily  papers, 
backs  of  prospectuses,  leaves  torn  from  account-books, 
copy-books  blotted  with  ink,  stained  by  the  dust  of  the 
highway,  all  tied  together  with  a  bit  of  thread.  And 
over  it  all  Yann's  coarse  writing  trails  in  a  determined, 
fantastic  fashion,  like  the  broad,  winding  trenches  cut 
by  a  plough  in  the  bosom  of  the  autumn  waste-land. 
The  strokes  for  the  most  part  are  heavy,  careless  and 
laboured  is  the  language  ;  but  here  and  there  a  verse 


104  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

stands  out,  a  fine,  sonorous  verse,  which  bears  on  its 
wings  the  whole  of  the  poem.  Thus  will  a  bird's  song 
oftentimes  suffice  to  cheer  the  monotony  of  a  whole 
dull  landscape. 

The  poet  usually  had  ten  or  twenty  thousand  copies 
of  his  works  printed  at  a  time.  For  convenience  sake 
he  divided  these  among  the  four  or  five  districts  through 
which  he  was  accustomed  to  travel,  giving  them  into 
the  charge  of  a  few  trusty  friends,  who  undertook  to 
keep  him  supplied,  according  to  the  requirements  of 
his  sale,  and  thus  his  calfskin  knapsack  was  no  sooner 
empty  than  it  was  refilled.  It  was  in  the  early  days  of 
March  that  Yann  began  his  travels,  for  then  in  Breton 
land  comes  the  time  of  "Fairs  and  Pardons."  Then, 
over  both  slopes  of  the  Mountains  of  Are,  the  roads 
are  crowded  by  pilgrims,  cattle,  and  carts.  Then  the 
silver  crowns  come  forth,  from  beneath  piles  of  linen, 
that  lie  in  the  depths  of  great  cupboards  ;  and  the  boys 
get  out  their  new  waistcoats,  and  girls  their  broidered 
caps.  Then  the  face  of  our  old  peninsula,  still  wet  with 
winter  rain,  lights  up  with  a  gentle  smile,  for  nothing 
in  the  world  is  so  sweet  and  delicate  as  a  western 
springtide.  There  is  a  charm  about  it,  a  softness,  some- 
thing that  I  can  only  describe  as  maiden  modesty,  that 
is  altogether  its  own.  Pale,  golden  light  floods  the 
heaven,  and  the  air  is  sharp  as  a  sea-breeze.  The  dis- 
tance is  blue,  thin  blue,  almost  transparent,  and  on  the 
hilltops  the  church  spires  rise  bolder  than  ever,  as  they 
send  the  tinkling  message  of  their  chimes  from  one 
parish  to  another.  One  has  to  know  the  Breton  people 
quite  intimately  before  one  can  realize  what  a  powerful 
effect  these  shrill  sounds  have  upon  them,  what  echoes 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        105 

they  awake  in  their  hearts.  There  is  a  legend  that 
says,  that  if  there  could  be  found  a  diver  bold  enough 
to  set  the  long-silent  bell  of  Ker-Is  a-swinging,  the 
whole  town,  "  The  Beauty  of  Sleeping  Waters,"  would 
arise  again  in  its  splendour  above  the  ocean  that 
engulfed  it.  And  as  a  matter  of  fact,  that  is  what 
happens  every  year  among  our  countrymen  as  soon  as 
the  first  Pardon  chimes  are  heard  in  the  land.  A 
whole  unexpected  world  of  sentiment,  young,  graceful, 
and  poetic,  suddenly  arises  from  the  grey  depths  of  the 
Breton  nature,  called  to  life  by  the  music  of  the  bells. 
These  silent,  reserved  people  become  gay  as  light- 
hearted  children.  They  desert  the  cottages  in  which 
they  have  been  shut  up  all  winter,  never  even  taking 
the  precaution  of  bolting  the  doors.  They  wander  off 
toward  the  neighbouring  towns,  gather  round  their 
chapels  and  worshipping  places,  often  little  more  than 
a  simple  fountain,  scarce  visible  beneath  the  willows 
growing  in  the  midst  of  some  meadow.  They  have  but 
the  most  hazy  notions  of  time,  or  even  of  money  ;  only  a 
craving  for  pleasure  seizes  them,  modest  pleasure,  almost 
always  innocent,  very  rarely  coarse.  Their  chief  amuse- 
ments are  wrestling  and  dancing,  but  what  they  love 
above  all  is  singing,  and  those  who  really  devote  them- 
selves to  song  are  looked  upon  as  inspired. 

Yann  never  appeared  but  a  crowd  gathered  around 
him,  and  as  long  as  he  chose  to  give  them  anything  to 
listen  to,  they  hung  upon  his  lips.  They  would  seize 
the  leaflets,  where  the  song  appeared  in  coarse,  blotted 
print,  the  young  girls  slipping  them  carefully  into  the 
folds  of  their  shawls,  or  their  apron  pockets ;  the  boys 
stuffing  out  their  jackets  with   them  or  pinning  them 


106  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

to  their  hats.  There  is  not  a  farm  in  Tregor,  where, 
yellowing  in  the  sun,  by  the  side  of  the  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  on  the  window-ledge,  you  will  not  find  a  heap 
of  works  by  Yann  Ar  Minouz.  The  coppers  used 
literally  to  come  pouring  down  at  the  feet  of  the  Bard, 
and  he  might  well  have  amassed  quite  a  modest  com- 
petence, giving  the  lie  to  the  Breton  adage  that  speaks 
of  poetry  as  "  a  starving  trade,"  but  he  was  too  entirely 
a  child  of  his  race  and  country  to  have  a  sense  of 
economy.  He  was  perfectly  content  to  live  from  day 
to  day,  spending  without  ever  counting  the  cost,  in  true 
artistic  style  ;  paying,  during  rich  weeks,  for  the  luxury 
of  keeping  a  court  of  beggars,  who  gorged  themselves 
at  his  expense,  and  praised  his  generosity. 

Never  once  did  it  occur  to  him  to  send  his  wife  any 
of  the  money  he  made.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
her  very  existence,  and,  for  her  part,  she  was  too  proud 
to  ask  him  for  any  help.  He  had  left  her  with  four 
children  on  her  hands,  four  boys,  born  during  those 
years  that  preceded  Mary's  death.  To  provide  for  them, 
Marie-Frangoise  went  out  to  service,  and  while  she 
toiled  for  others  a  good-natured  neighbour  kept  her 
house  and  looked  after  her  family. 

"  One  evening,  as  I  came  home  from  work,"  said 
she,  "  I  saw  a  man  stooping  to  peep  through  the  window 
into  the  cottage,  and  I  knew  it  was  Yann.  As  soon  as 
he  had  taken  a  good  look,  off  he  went  again  ;  no  doubt 
he  had  come  to  see  if  Mary  had  returned.  At  long 
intervals  he  used  to  appear  in  the  neighbourhood  like 
that,  and  one  day  we  happened  to  meet. 

"  *  Good  day,  Marie-Fran^oise,'  said  he,  affectionately, 
and  I  answered, '  Good  day,  Yann  ' ;  that  was  all.     He 


THE   PARDON  OF  THE   SINGERS        107 

never  asked  me  a  word  about  our  boys,  the  eldest  of 
whom  was  by  that  time  a  mason  at  Lezardrieux," 

However,  when  this  eldest  son  was  married,  the 
husband  and  wife  at  last  met,  for  Yann  came  in  person 
to  bring  his  consent.  He  showed  not  the  slightest 
repentance  or  embarrassment,  seemed  gay  and  happy, 
sang  some  capital  songs,  and  when  night  came,  lay 
quietly  down  beside  his  wife  in  the  bed  where  they 
had  slept  during  their  short  married  life.  Next  day 
he  took  his  flight ;  but  within  the  week  they  saw  him 
again,  and  little  by  little  he  settled  down.  He  had 
become  rheumatic  through  sleeping  at  "  La  Belle  Etoile," 
his  voice,  too,  was  getting  hoarse,  and  his  lungs  were 
failing.  The  quiet  warmth  of  the  fireside  was  gradually 
weaning  him  from  his  nomadic  life,  and  he  ended  by 
placing  his  walking-staff  in  the  chimney-corner,  murmur- 
ing the  lines  of  Proux :  "  Hac  ar  c'henvid  da  stcuin  ouz 
va  fenn-baz  dero."  * 

After  that  he  never  left  Pleumeur,  save  twice  a  year, 
when,  however  much  any  one  might  dissuade  him,  he 
insisted  on  making  two  pilgrimages,  to  which  he  re- 
mained faithful  till  the  day  of  his  death.  The  first  was 
to  Menez-Bre,  where  stands  the  chapel  of  Saint  Herve, 
patron  of  bards ;  the  other  to  Rumengol,  traditional 
meeting-place  of  singers. 

*  The   spiders    now  may    spin    their  webs   around    my   oak 
penn-baz. 


108  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 


CHAPTER  VI 

HE  was  sitting  opposite  me  near  the  open  window, 
through  which  delicious  little  breezes  reached  us 
from  the  fresh  night  without. 

"  Why  is  this  Pardon  called  the  Pardon  of  Singers  ? 
Perhaps,  Yann,  you,  who  know  everything,  can  tell  me  ? 
There  must  be  some  other  reason  than  that  the  con- 
script gave  me." 

"  Why,  yes  !  of  course  there  is.  I  will  tell  you  all 
about  it  as  you  don't  know  ;  only  mind,  it  is  true  history. 

"  When  King  Gralon,  having  finished  his  purgatory 
on  earth,  crossed  the  doorstep  into  paradise,  the  first 
person  whom  he  met  was  the  Virgin  Mary,  who  began 
thanking  him  very  heartily  for  the  beautiful  church  he 
had  built  for  her.  *  If  there  is  anything  you  can  think 
of  to  make  you  perfectly  happy  here,'  she  added,  '  I 
shall  be  very  pleased  indeed  to  give  it  to  you.' 

"  '  Alas  ! '  answered  the  old  king,  *  how  can  I  be 
happy  while  my  daughter  Ahes  carries  on  her  sad 
business  as  a  murderess  f  The  remembrance  never 
leaves  me  for  a  moment.' 

"  The  Virgin  drooped  her  head.  *  Ah,'  said  she,  '  I 
am  afraid  I  can  do  nothing  about  that.' 

"  '  But  you  can  at  least  prevent  her  drowning  people. 
By  taking  away  her  sweet  voice,  the  means  of  all  her 
crimes,  you  can  remove  my  people's  curse  from  her.' 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS         109 

"  *  No,  Gralon  ;  what  is,  must  ever  be.  But  listen,  I 
will  tell  you  what  I  can  and  will  do.  A  race  of  singers 
shall  arise,  who  shall  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  siren,  and 
by  means  of  their  voices  they  shall  overcome  her  evil 
charm,  I  will  endow  them  with  the  double  gift  of  beau- 
tiful verse  and  pious  thought.  Wherever  Ahes  goes 
spreading  mourning  and  terror,  there  shall  these  singers 
pass,  bringing  hope  and  comfort.  They  shall  soothe 
the  sorrows  she  causes,  give  peace  to  the  souls  she  fills 
with  consternation  ;  and  just  as  I  am  the  Virgin  of  All- 
Heal,  they  shall  be  the  comforters  of  all  sorrow.  Every 
year  in  the  month  of  May,  which  is  my  own  month,  you 
shall  see  them  hastening  to  my  Pardon  of  Rumengol. 
There,  from  an  inexhaustible  source,  a  fount  of  songs 
and  canticles  shall  flow,  and  from  thence  they  shall 
spread  far  and  wide,  to  make  known  to  all  the  world 
the  strength  of  the  Breton  men,  the  beauty  of  their 
daughters,  the  prowess  of  their  ancestors  ;  and  your  story 
too,  O,  Gralon  !  shall  they  sing.  Fields  and  moors, 
threshing-floors  and  village  greens,  shall  resound  to  their 
unwearying  voices,  till  as  soon  as  any  one  catches 
sight  of  them  he  shall  cry,  '  See,  here  come  the  Virgin's 
nightingales  ! ' 

"  So  spoke  Our  Lady,  and  a  great  joy  arose  in  the 
old  king's  heart  as  he  listened.  And  now  you  know 
what  you  wanted  to  know." 

I  mentioned  to  Yann  the  name  of  the  Breton  poet, 
Le  Scour,  who  called  himself  The  Bard  of  Rumengol. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  he  has  earned  that  title  more  than 
any  one  else.  He  has  written  a  whole  book  about  this 
worshipping  place.  I  used  to  know  Ar  Scour  ;  he  was  a 
poet  and  a  winemaker  at  the  same  time.    He  was  a  rich 


110  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

Bard,  which  is  a  rare  kind  of  bird,  but  he  never  looked 
down  on  his  poorer  brethren,  those  like  myself,  who 
having  no  wine  to  sell,  are  obliged  to  live  by  their 
verses.  He  was  always  kind  and  generous,  willing  to 
open  his  door  and  purse  to  them.  His  house  at  Morlaix 
was  free  to  any  professional  poet.  Some  of  the  songs 
he  wrote  will  be  sung  as  long  as  the  Breton  tongue  is 
spoken.  Who  does  not  know  by  heart,  Gwennili  tre- 
meniad  [the  swallow]  ?  I  know  that  disagreeable  people 
have  said  that  his  best  pieces  were  not  really  his  own, 
that  others  put  their  talents  into  them,  and  he  had  only 
to  sign  them.  But  all  that  is  very  much  exaggerated. 
Still  I  must  confess  that  Plac'hik  Eussa  [the  little  girl 
of  Ouessant],  the  most  finished  poem  in  his  Telen 
Rumengol  [Harp  of  Rumengol],  is  a  very  ancient 
gwerz,  which  he  appropriated,  and  simply  renovated. 
I  used  to  hear  my  father  sing  it  when  I  was  a  little 
child.  He  would  hum  it  as  he  pushed  the  shuttle 
backwards  and  forwards  ;  it  had  such  a  sad  slow  tune 
that  it  made  us  all  cry.  I  have  kept  to  his  way  of 
singing  it,  and  if  you  are  about  when  the  processions 
from  Ouessant  pass  by  the  churchyard  wall,  you  may  see 
for  yourself  how  I  can  draw  tears  from  that  fierce  race 
of  pirates." 

We  went  out  together,  but  parted  on  the  doorstep. 
As  I  had  disturbed  him  from  his  nap,  Yann  thought  he 
might  as  well  make  use  of  the  extra  time  by  beginning 
his  rounds  in  the  refreshment  booths  and  tents.  He 
knew  that  there  he  would  be  sure  to  sell  the  remaining 
copies  of  his  famous  "Dispute  between  Brandy  and 
Coffee."     As  for  me,  I  went  off  to  the  left. 

Here  rose  the  great  sombre  arch  at  the  entrance  to 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        111 

the  churchyard,  and  just  within  it  stood  an  immense  yew 
tree,  old  as  time  itself,  the  Death  Tree,  a  kind  of  funereal 
baobab,  that  had  fattened  on  the  human  remains  of 
many  a  century — a  distorted  trunk,  tortured,  twisted  into 
a  spiral,  roots  burrowing  through  the  wall,  branches 
reaching  out  only  in  one  direction,  very  low,  almost  on  a 
level  with  the  tombs,  covering  the  poor  enclosure  with 
shadow,  pouring  down  its  dense,  heavy  melancholy  in  a 
black,  unrippled  pool,  A  path,  bounded  by  crosses,  led 
to  the  church  porch.  Within,  thick  darkness  reigned, 
and  I  heard  the  rhythmical  breathing  of  a  sleeping 
multitude.  By  the  thin  light  that  entered  now  and 
again,  as  some  one  opened  the  door  of  the  nave,  the 
bodies  of  men  and  women  could  be  seen  lying  pell-mell 
on  the  stone  bench  that  ran  along  the  wall.  One 
beggar,  stretched  out  with  his  head  on  his  knapsack,  his 
staff  between  his  legs,  and  a  little  spaniel  at  his  feet, 
looked  for  all  the  world  like  the  sculptured,  granite 
figure  of  a  bishop,  lying  under  the  arch  of  a  tomb,  his 
hands  joined  over  his  cross,  and  sandals  resting  on  some 
heraldic  beast. 

Within  the  church,  at  ten  o'clock  ! 

A  little  too  gilded,  this  interior,  a  little  too  much 
loaded  by  distracting  ornament.  It  is  vaguely  lighted 
by  candles  from  behind  the  pillar,  against  which  the 
Madonna  of  the  place  is  leaning.  And  this  light,  coming 
from  some  invisible  source,  this  diffused  radiance,  is 
most  mysterious,  soft,  and  sweet.  It  caresses  the  white 
coifs  of  the  women — fine  net  caps  from  Douarnenez,  flat- 
backed  caps  from  Carhaix,  caps  from  Concarneau  like 
fresh  crimped  skate,  caps  from  Chateaulin  with  fluttering 
wings,  caps  from  Leon  swelling  as  the  sails  in  a  bay, 


112  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

thin  and  delicate.  In  the  apse,  prostrate  before  the  altar 
steps,  a  circle  of  women  are  murmuring  the  Prayers 
of  the  Rosary,  and  the  whole  Church  makes  answer  in  a 
low  plaintive  whisper.  There  is  a  confused  poetry 
about  this  endless  litany,  that  fades,  every  now  and  then, 
and  almost  dies  away,  then  suddenly  comes  to  life 
again,  but  is  always  wavering,  always  uncertain,  like  the 
rustling  of  leaves  stirred  by  the  shifting  breeze — a  dream- 
prayer  rising  from  hundreds  of  drowsy  lips.  The  vigil 
lasts  till  daybreak.  All  these  weary  people  have  vowed 
to  pass  the  night  in  the  church  ;  nothing  in  the  world 
would  make  them  quit  their  posts,  not  even  the  offer  of 
the  very  finest  of  beds.  The  tired,  careless  postures,  the 
weary  faces,  make  the  spectacle  still  more  strange, 
reminding  one  of  the  bands  of  suppliants  in  some  old 
tragedy.  The  comparison  is  in  no  way  exaggerated  ;  I 
have  seen  the  most  wonderful  faces  at  Rumengol,  perfect 
types  of  stern,  sorrowful  beauty.  Look  at  this  young 
girl,  for  instance,  whose  head  has  fallen  on  to  the 
shoulder  of  her  brother,  or  sweetheart.  She  is  sleeping 
as  though  in  a  trance,  yet  even  in  her  perfect  uncon- 
sciousness she  preserves  a  certain  graceful  beauty,  im- 
possible to  describe.  And  then  this  peasant  woman, 
seated  on  her  heels,  her  sad  face,  old  before  its  time, 
wrinkled  with  care,  furrowed  by  tears.  With  one  hand 
she  is  telling  her  beads,  with  the  other  she  supports  her 
son,  a  tall,  pale  boy,  who  lies  across  her  knees,  devoured 
by  some  incurable  illness.  She  broods  over  him  with 
her  loving  eyes,  and  her  persistent  prayers  lull  him  like 
an  endless  cradle-song.  Truly  is  she  a  Mother  of  Seven 
Sorrows,  a  pathetic,  living  image  of  La  Pieta. 

Outside,  a  song  arises,  a  slow  minor  ode,  one  of 


THK   VIGIL   OF   SOXG    IX   THE   CHUKCHVARD 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS         113 

those    penetrating    Breton   songs   in   which    the   same 
phrase  keeps  repeating  again  and  again,  now  dull  as 
a  sigh,  now  sharp  and  strident  as  the  howl  of  a  wounded 
dog.     It  is  the  beginning  of  another  vigil,  the  Vigil  of 
Song  in  the  churchyard.     Pilgrims  have  planted  them- 
selves among  the  grass  of  the  graves,  on  the  tops  of 
the  tombs.     Perched  on  one  of  the  highest,  her  back 
against  a  cross,  a  girl  is  singing,  a  girl  from  Spezet,  tall 
and  thin,  her  black  bodice  braided  with  velvet,  her  head 
small,  her  eyes  too  large.     A  friend,  crouching  at  her 
feet,  whispers  the  first  words  of  each  verse  to  her,  spell- 
ing them  slowly  out  from  an  old  hymn-book  with  the 
aid  of  a  wavering  candle.     The  voice  of  the  singer  has 
weird  notes  in  it,  low  notes,  veiled  as  though  they  came 
from  a  long  distance,  and  which  remain  long  quivering 
in   the   air.     Then,   abruptly,   without   any   noticeable 
transition,   the   song   flings  itself  forth  angrily  with  a 
loud,  hoarse  cry,  so  that  the  girl  is  quite  out  of  breath 
by  the  time  that   she  gets  to  the  end  of  each  verse. 
Others  join  in  the  refrain,  the  "  Diskan,"  with  a  broad 
lingering  of  rhythm,  infinitely  sorrowful,  and  the  singer 
goes  on  immediately,  with  never  a  pause  or  interval. 
Her  head  is  thrown  back,  and  the  veins  of  her  neck 
stand  out   like  cords,  while  down  her  flushed    cheeks 
great  drops   are  running.     Her  bodice   has  come  un- 
fastened with  the  swell  of  her  bosom,  the  string  of  her 
cap  is  broken,  but  what  cares  she !     Exhausted,  breath- 
less, she  goes  stubbornly  on.     Others  offer  to  take  her 
place,  but  in  vain,  she  will  not  yield  it ;   at  the  very 
thought  she  redoubles  her  passion,  her  ecstasy.     Truly 
it  is  the  delirium  of  sacred  fury.     She  seems  a  priestess 
of  an  earlier  religion,  possessed  by  the  ancient  gods, 
I 


114  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

the  subtle  essence  of  whose  spirits  naturally  linger  round 
such  places  as  Rumengol. 

...  I  am  going  by  the  footpaths  along  the  little 
river  to  Le  Faou.  It  is  almost  three  o'clock,  and  a  rosy 
flush  is  softly  growing  in  the  eastern  sky.  It  seems 
as  though  it  were  true,  the  adage  that  declares,  that, 
while  the  Pardon  lasts,  night  at  Rumengol  is  even  as 
day.  The  sea-breeze  has  risen,  and  among  the  green 
of  the  trees  something  is  shining,  an  ocean  sword 
plunging  into  the  heart  of  the  land.  And  here  is  Le 
Faou — old  walls,  old  roofs,  a  complete  tiny  city,  with  the 
air  of  bygone  days,  dominated  by  the  court-house,  great 
souvenir  of  feudal  times.  A  quay,  the  rigging  of  a  ship 
sharply  outlined  on  the  pearl-grey  distant  waters,  the 
silhouette  of  a  solitary  exciseman,  perched  at  the  end 
of  the  breakwater  like  a  cormorant  at  rest.  As  the 
western  mists  scatter,  three  promontories  come  into 
view,  solitary  rocks,  haunted  by  great  names  and  greater 
miracles — Kerohan,  Le  Priolly,  Landevennec.  A  cloudy 
shape,  at  first  uncertain,  but  little  by  little  growing 
sharper  and  more  solid,  raises  itself  at  last,  and  is 
Menez  Horn,  chief  of  the  clan  of  the  Monts-Noirs, 
their  sentinel  towards  the  Atlantic.  With  his  swelling 
ridge  and  his  face  raised  to  the  sun,  he  hangs  over  the 
sea  as  though  warning  the  sailor  from  perpetual  danger. 

And  now,  under  the  first  faint  eastern  light,  the  sea 
shivers,  the  sea  awakes.  Purple  shadows  spread  over 
its  surface,  like  the  blushes  that  stain  the  white  bosom 
of  a  maiden  when  her  heart  first  beats  at  the  coming 
of  her  lover.  I  know  of  nothing  to  compare  in  beauty 
with  this  awakening  of  the  sea  in  the  early  dusk  of 
a  summer  morning.     It  is  like  watching  the  first  dawn, 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        115 

the  coming  of  light  to  the  new-made  world,  when  the 
waters  were  separated  from  the  earth,  the  light  from 
the  shadows.  In  these  great  quiet  tracts  of  the  far 
west,  where  man  has  not  yet  forced  his  invading,  de- 
forming personality  on  all  around  him,  but  still  remains 
brother  to  nature,  daybreak  has  kept  its  poetry,  the 
charm  of  its  young  grace,  and  mystic  majesty. 

.  .  .  Round  the  Isle  of  Tibidi,  the  Rock  of  Prayer,* 
I  can  see  a  sail  approaching,  and  behind  it  another  and 
another,  piercing  the  level  grey  with  specks  of  brown. 
It  is  the  procession  of  boats  from  Ouessant,  making 
their  way  up  the  tidal  river.  Heavy  strong  fishing  craft 
they  are,  built  to  weather  the  daily  storms  from  the 
west,  but  now  decked  out  for  the  occasion  like  sacred 
boats  of  old.  Can  it  be  that  the  soft,  rippling  waters  of 
this  sheltered  inland  sea  frighten  them,  tempest  dwellers 
as  they  are,  wrestlers  with  untamed  hurricanes  ?  or  do 
they  realize  the  solemn  nature  of  their  expedition,  that 
they  move  so  slowly  along,  with  the  grave,  noble  bearing 
of  Greek  warships  sailing  across  the  smiling  sea  towards 
white  Delos  ?  As  they  reach  the  narrow  channel  they 
fall  into  single  file,  lower  their  canvas,  and  draw  quietly 
up  to  the  quay  to  disembark  their  passengers,  all  in 
perfect  silence,  almost  without  a  movement.  The  women 
are  the  first  to  land,  each,  faithful  to  the  ancient  custom, 
falling  on  her  knees  to  kiss  the  ground,  where,  according 
to  tradition,  begins  the  holy  land,  the  kingdom  of  Our 
Lady.  Then  in  groups  they  start  towards  the  House 
of  the  Saint,  all  feet  bare,  each  hand  holding  a  candle. 
Tall  they  are  for  the  most  part,  a  little  masculine,  with 

*  So-called  because  of  the  frequent  "  retreats  "  Gwennol(^  and 
his  monks  spent  there. 


116  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

features  regular,  but  too  strong  and  determined.  Their 
skin  is  not  only  tanned,  but  reddened  to  the  bright 
red  of  salted  flesh,  that  of  the  old  as  of  the  young. 
Only  their  eyes  are  beautiful — their  warm,  blue-green 
eyes,  calling  to  mind  rock  pools  of  clear  sea-water 
sleeping  on  beds  of  seaweed.  Moreover,  they  are 
sad  eyes,  reflecting  in  their  limpid  depths  shadows  of 
past  griefs  and  foretaste  of  sorrows  to  come.  There  is 
not  one  among  these  Ouessantines  who  from  birth  to 
death  has  not  been  destined  to  eternal  weeping.  They 
live  in  perpetual  terror  of  that  sea  which  robs  them 
of  their  fathers,  their  lovers,  their  husbands,  their  sons. 
This  is  why  they  dress  in  mourning  from  the  cradle  to 
the  grave.  Black  is  the  bodice,  black  the  skirt  and 
apron,  black  the  covering  worn  over  the  stiff  white  cap. 
There  is  something  priestly  about  this  large  angular 
head-dress,  its  falling  flaps  calling  to  mind  the  "  Pschent " 
of  ancient  Egypt.  No  finery,  no  coquetry  ;  even  the 
hair,  that  pride  of  womanhood,  crown  of  her  sovereignty, 
hangs  down  the  neck  and  cheeks  in  short  straight  locks. 
Everything — the  sombre  dress,  the  loose  hair  around  the 
mournful  faces,  still  more  the  melancholy  lament  that 
rises  from  their  lips  by  way  of  prayer — all  tends  to 
sadden  one's  heart  by  calling  up  thoughts  of  death  and 
desolation,  till  at  length  these  women  seem  a  troop  of 
victims  driven  forward  to  their  doom  by  some  goddess 
of  fate. 

They  follow  the  road  absorbed  in  their  devotions, 
distracted  neither  by  the  warmth  of  the  air,  the  scented 
flowers,  nor  that  young  verdure  to  which  their  eyes 
must  be  so  little  accustomed.  Many  of  them  are  to-day 
for  the  first  time  breathin  g  this  sweet  country  fragrance, 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        117 

yet  all  these  matters  are  but  of  little  moment  to  them, 
well  used  as  they  are  to  their  savage  island,  naked 
beneath  its  thin  mantle  of  scorched  grass.  They  pass 
by  the  enchantments  of  the  mainland  with  perfect 
indifference,  having  eyes  only  for  the  thin  granite  needle 
that  rises  high  on  the  crest  from  behind  a  curtain  of 
forest.  Right  over  its  point  still  lingers  a  belated  star, 
feebly  twinkling  in  a  sky  half  covered  by  the  rising 
waves  of  day.  To  the  Ouessantines  this  pale  little  light 
must  seem  a  heavenly  beacon,  for  no  sooner  do  they 
catch  sight  of  it  than  they  break  together  into  the 
hymn  of  the  Virgin,  the  Breton  version  of  the  "  Ave 
maris  stella  " — 

"  Ni  ho  salud,  stereden  vor  !  .  .  ." 

The  voices  are  cast  back  by  the  great  echo  of  the 
mountains,  and  the  men,  who  have  dropped  a  little 
behind,  hasten  their  steps  at  the  sound.  I  have  fallen 
in  among  them,  some  fifty  great  lads,  in  grey  or  blue 
woollen  jerseys,  with  huge  muscles,  giant  fists,  and  the 
good,  placid  faces  of  sweet-tempered  children.  Long 
dark  lashes  shade  their  light  eyes,  uncertain  in  colour, 
as  though  washed  by  sea-mists.  They  are  very  friendly 
and  talkative,  telling  me  that  they  started  from  Ouessant 
last  evening  ;  that  it  took  them  nearly  ten  hours  to  cross 
the  Iroise,  and  that  they  have  brought  food  enough  for 
three  days.  "  Because,  you  see,  in  our  part  of  the  world 
it  is  easy  enough  to  know  when  you  start,  but  no 
one  can  possibly  say  when  you  may  get  home  again." 
From  time  to  time  some  innkeeper,  sitting  on  a  cask 
by  the  roadside,  near  his  bottle-covered  counter,  calls 
to  them — 


118  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

"  Well,  and  are  not  you  Island  folk  going  to  take  a 
morning  drink  ? " 

To  which  they  answer  cheerfully,  "  We'll  take  two 
as  we  go  back  ; "  for  they  have  been  fasting  since  mid- 
night, so  as  to  be  ready  to  take  the  sacrament  at  early 
Mass. 

Each  of  these  men  is  performing  the  pilgrimage  for 
his  whole  family,  and  has  to  bear  back  to  his  people  the 
blessing  of  Our  Lady.  There  is  not  a  household  in  the 
island  but  has  a  representative  here,  a  delegate  entrusted 
with  the  most  important  missions.  Sometimes  lots  are 
drawn  for  this  office,  and  during  the  week  preceding  his 
departure,  the  pilgrim  visits  all  his  relations,  from  the 
great  uncle  to  the  very  last  little  cousin.  Each  gives 
him  some  commission  for  the  saint.  Perhaps  it  is  the 
grandfather,  who  feels  his  sight  failing,  and  asks  that 
it  may  be  preserved  to  him  ;  or  it  is  Aunt  Barba,  who 
has  gout,  and  wants  to  be  cured  ;  then  there  is  "  tonton  " 
Guillou,  distracted  by  a  lawsuit,  who  expects  the  Virgin 
to  appear  on  his  behalf  before  the  judges ;  and  Gaidik 
Tassel,  called  "Too  White,"  because  of  her  extreme 
pallor.  Though  only  just  twenty,  she  is  fading  away 
from  some  complaint  of  which  neither  she  nor  any  one 
else  can  tell  the  cause ;  but  no  doubt  the  Virgin  of 
All-Heal  will  recognize  its  nature.  And  many  more 
messages  there  are ;  prescriptions,  too,  some  of  them 
most  complicated.  "  You  see  this  halfpenny  ?  You  must 
put  that  one  in  the  church  box,  and  this  you  must  drop 
into  the  fountain.  Now,  be  careful  not  to  mix  them  ! " 
Or,  "You  must  light  a  candle  on  the  right-hand  side  of 
the  Virgin,  and  notice  how  many  times  the  flame  leaps 
up  before  beginning  to  burn  steadily."     In  short,  there 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        119 

is  a  complete  system  of  rites,  in  which  our  civilized 
memories  would  most  certainly  lose  themselves.  The 
Islander,  however,  finds  no  more  difficulty  than  among 
the  tangled  rigging  of  his  boat.  He  arranges  it  all,  and 
gets  it  ready  in  his  mind  with  that  habit  of  neatness 
peculiar  to  sailors.  You  may  be  sure  that  he  will  not 
forget  the  very  least  detail,  and  will  perform  one  after 
another  each  of  the  commissions  with  which  he  has  been 
entrusted.  Should  he  fail  in  any  respect,  he  would 
consider  himself  guilty  of  sacrilege ;  for  is  not  the 
welfare  of  all  those  who  are  dearest  to  him  involved  in 
these  practices  ?  Even  he  himself  has  the  greatest  faith 
in  their  efficacy.  Only  one  example  is  known  of  an 
Islander  having  failed.  The  unhappy  man  was  given 
to  drinking,  possessed  by  the  demon  of  brandy,  and 
happening  on  his  arrival  to  turn  in  at  one  of  the  taverns 
of  Le  Faou,  forgot  his  mission,  and  never  set  foot  in 
Rumengol  at  all.  When  the  pilgrims  whom  he  had 
brought  over  with  him  returned  from  the  Pardon,  they 
found  him  sobered  and  repentant,  but  nevertheless  they 
refused  to  return  in  his  boat ;  and  they  did  wisely,  for 
no  one  ever  heard  tell  of  him  again — even  the  sea 
never  gave  up  his  body.  And  the  Ouessantine  who 
furnished  me  with  these  particulars  added  in  a  serious 
tone — 

"  It  was  very  fortunate  that  he  did  not  bring  down 
God's  judgment  on  his  whole  race." 

"  What  is  the  object  of  these  women  in  coming  with 
you  ?  Why  do  they  not  send  a  father,  husband,  son,  or 
even  some  cousin  ?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  he,  calmly,  "  probably  because  they  have 
none.     There  are  so  many  homes  in  the  Island  without 


120  THE  LAND   OF  PARDONS 

any  men  at  all.  Every  year  numbers  of  us  go  to  sleep 
in  the  great  graveyard,  where  every  one  is  his  own 
sexton  ; "  and  he  pointed  with  a  gesture  to  the  ocean 
lying  below,  the  soft  rosy  sea,  spread  voluptuously  out 
over  a  race  of  dead  men. 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  SINGERS        121 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  clock  is  striking  with  short,  hurried  strokes.  It 
is  the  sign  for  a  general  movement.  From  barns, 
stables,  and  lofts,  comes  a  tumbled  crowd,  their  faces 
still  flushed  with  sleep,  bits  of  straw  sticking  in  their 
hair,  dust  on  their  backs.  They  smear  their  cheeks 
with  a  little  water  at  the  trough  in  the  corner  of  the 
yard,  the  women  rearranging  their  caps  and  dusting 
their  skirts  and  aprons.  Endless  lines  are  moving 
toward  the  church ;  people  seem  coming  from  every- 
where, rising  up  from  the  meadows,  climbing  down 
from  the  trees,  stout  dwarf  oaks,  sculptured  by  time 
into  great  armchairs.  The  whole  country  round  about 
Rumengol  has  the  look  of  a  tumbled  bed,  a  great  couch, 
where  thousands  of  people  have  been  sleeping,  and  from 
the  trampled  grass  and  deep  hay,  pressed  into  the  shape 
of  bodies,  rises  a  fresh,  sweet  scent  that  fills  all  space. 

Here  and  there  are  still  smoking  heaps  of  ashes, 
forsaken  bivouac  fires. 

During  the  warm  nights  of  June  the  Breton  peasant 
does  not  take  in  his  cattle,  but  leaves  them  free  to  feed, 
or  meditate  under  the  stars,  instead  of  shutting  them  up 
in  the  stable,  and  the  upland  valley  of  Rumengol,  with 
its  fresh  water  and  rich  pasture,  is  a  celebrated  breeding- 
place.  So  in  the  clear  morning  light,  all  the  country 
around  is  speckled  with  dots  of  white,  and  tan,  and 


122  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

black.  There  are  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  these 
cattle  scattered  over  the  slopes.  They  move  along 
with  the  easy  indolence  of  well-to-do  beasts,  a  little 
astonished  perhaps  at  the  enormous  wealth  of  people 
in  their  usually  quiet  neighbourhood.  Some  of  them 
lean  against  the  gates  of  the  stone  barriers,  or  stand  with 
their  dewy  noses  hanging  over  the  broom  hedges, 
mooing  gently,  and  rolling  their  great  soft  eyes.  More 
than  one  pilgrim  stretches  out  an  arm  to  caress  them  in 
passing,  for  they  are  a  well-recognized  feature  of  the 
fete.  Is  it  not  written  in  the  Book  of  the  Virgin,  that — 
"  She  brought  forth  her  Son,  the  Mabik,  in  the  midst  of 
the  oxen  ?"  and  does  not  our  Lady  of  Rumengol  care 
for  the  beasts  as  well  as  for  the  men  ?  One  year  some 
gipsies,  the  rascals,  stole  a  cow  during  the  night.  They 
led  her  away  into  the  forest  of  Kranou,  and  were  just 
about  to  kill  her  and  eat  her,  when  suddenly  a  storm 
broke  forth,  a  storm  that  had  certainly  not  been  fore- 
told by  any  signs  in  the  weather.  Three  claps  of 
thunder  resounded,  and  the  lightning  struck  the  thieves, 
along  with  the  tree  to  which  the  cow  was  tied.  She, 
herself,  was  not  in  the  least  damaged,  and  her  cord 
being  now  loosed,  was  able  to  rejoin  the  herd  without 
their  even  having  had  time  to  miss  her.  In  the  end  she 
benefited  greatly  by  this  adventure.  No  one  doubted 
that  she  had  been  saved  by  a  miracle,  and  she  was 
looked  upon  as  a  special  favourite  of  the  Virgin,  and 
treated  with  all  the  consideration  due  to  her  estate. 
From  that  time  forth  she  always  had  the  softest  litter, 
the  best-filled  rack,  and  after  having  lived  long  in 
plenty,  died  at  last  of  old  age,  without  having  ever 
known  the  anxiety  of  being  taken  to  distant  fairs.  .  .  . 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        123 

If  you  wish  to  get  some  idea  of  the  surprising 
variety  of  our  Breton  race,  its  diversity  of  type,  its  rich- 
ness of  costume,  stand  in  the  churchyard  of  Rumengol 
and  watch  the  people  come  from  early  Mass  on  Trinity 
Sunday.  All  Brittany  has  assembled  there  as  a  single 
man.  What  effects,  what  contrasts  !  Here  are  the  big 
people  of  Leon,  keen  business  men,  sombre  fanatics, 
born  to  be  either  merchants  or  priests,  never  opening 
their  disdainful  lips  save  to  utter  a  prayer  or  talk  about 
money.  Near  them  are  the  men  of  Treguier,  quick- 
eyed  and  active,  with  open,  honest  faces.  Pleasant 
talkers  they  are,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  their  smile. 
.  .  .  Over  there  again,  stand  the  Tran'  Doue,  the  folk 
of  Pont-Labbe,  dressed  like  Mexicans,  with  yellow- 
broidered  waistcoats,  and  broad  trousers  that  swell  out 
above  the  ankles.  Handsome  men  for  the  most  part, 
with  large,  red  beards  framing  their  jolly  faces.  They 
leave  all  the  disfiguring  duties  of  life  to  their  wives, 
while  they  parade  their  proud  manhood  about  at  all  the 
Fairs  and  Pardons.  .  .  .  And  here  comes  the  light  blue, 
the  azure  of  the  men  of  Cornouailles,  worked  with  fes- 
toons of  gold  the  colour  of  the  broom.  A  little  clumsy 
and  overdressed  are  these  clean -shaved  Southern 
Bretons,  but  happy  with  an  innocent,  everyday  cheer- 
fulness that  is  shown  by  their  rosy,  boyish  faces,  their 
taste  for  colours,  and  all  things  gaudy  ;  above  all,  by  the 
bright  jollity  of  their  songs.  But  how  they  serve  to  set 
off  to  advantage  the  graceful  sons  of  the  Mountains  of 
Ar^,  supple  and  straight  as  pine  trees  !  In  their  brown 
woollen  costume,  like  that  of  the  shepherds  of  old  time, 
they  make  one  think  of  the  haughty  freebooters  of  the 
Aber,  or  those  Palikares  of  the  Greek  coast,  who,  like 


124  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

them,  wore  caps  of  fustanette,  and  were  great,  splendid 
lads,  with  arms  like  huge  wings,  and  the  sharp  profiles 
of  birds  cleaving  the  air. 

Above,  on  an  eminence,  a  grassy  dune,  that  grows 
out  of  the  churchyard,  bearing  on  its  top  a  chapel, 
Yann  Ar  Minouz  has  begun  the  Lament  of  Plac'hik 
Eussa,  in  his  harsh,  strident  voice — 

"  In  Eussa  lived  a  little  maid, 
Pretty  and  good  as  an  angel. 
Pretty  and  good  as  an  angel, 
And  her  name  was  Corentine. 

"  Alas  !  she  was  but  fifteen  years  of  age. 
And  already  a  heavy  cross  she  bore. 
Upon  a  rock  close  to  the  sea 
The  little  maiden  was  weeping  bitter  tears. 

"  And  from  her  full  heart  thus  she  prayed, 
Crying  aloud  toward  the  heavens.  .  .  ." 

A  slanting  ray  of  sunshine  began  to  play  over  the 
ragged  locks  of  the  Bard.  The  men  and  women  from 
the  Island  came  crowding  around  him  in  a  circle,  drink- 
ing in  his  words,  and  noting  every  expression  on  his 
face  as  they  followed  the  course  of  the  song.  For  not 
content  with  singing,  he  acted,  and  that  so  well,  that  he 
turned  the  lament  into  a  dramatic  monologue.  Ah, 
what  an  actor  he  was!  Joining  his  hands,  he  raised 
his  eyes  full  of  tears  to  heaven,  and  his  voice,  faltering 
at  first,  grew  into  the  most  heartbreaking  of  cries.  .  .  . 

"In  the  deep  sea  was  my  father  drowned, 
Fighting  against  the  English. 
When  they  told  her  this  grievous  news 
The  heart  of  my  dear  mother  broke. 


id 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS         125 

"  So  now  I  have  no  one,  alas  ! 
And  what  shall  I  do  here  all  alone  ? 
No  longer  have  I  on  this  earth, 
Father,  or  mother,  or  any  dear  friend  ! 

"  Father  or  mother,  no,  nor  any  friend  ; 
Life  is  for  me  but  grief  and  sorrow." 

One  of  the  Quessantines  has  hidden  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief,  and  it  is  plain  that  she  is  endeavouring  to 
stifle  her  sobs.  The  sailor  with  whom  I  talked  on  the 
way  up,  whispers  in  my  ear — 

"  She  is  an  orphan,  poor  girl ;  it  is  exactly  as  if  the 
words  were  written  for  her,  and  the  Song  Man  singing 
them  for  the  first  time." 

And  now  in  a  sweeter  key,  gently  swaying  his  whole 
body,  Yann  continues — 

"  But  ah"!  there  is  a  Father  in  heaven, 
And  a  good  Mother  at  Rumengol ! 

"  My  mother  often  said  to  me, 
'  Pray  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  child — 
The  tender  Virgin  of  Rumengol, 
For  she  will  never  forsake  you.' 

"  Stretch  forth  your  holy  hand,  oh.  Virgin, 
Over  your  desolate,  sorrowing  child. 
Over  me,  the  forsaken  orphan. 
And  I  will  go  with  bare  feet  to  your  Pardon. 

"  Barefoot  will  I  go  to  ask  for  help 
At  your  House  of  All-heal, 
Seven  times  will  I  make  the  tour 
Of  the  High  Altar  on  my  knees. 

"  Seven  times  the  tour  of  your  sanctuary, 
Oh,  Virgin,  protector  of  all  Bretons. 
Lady  Mary,  our  poor  people 
Cannot  make  you  costly  presents  ; 


126  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

"Neither  waxen  girdles  nor  candles, 
Nothing,  unless  it  be  their  prayers,  oh.  Virgin  ! 
Poor  as  they,  my  only  treasure 
Is  my  hair,  my  golden  hair. 

"  I  will  bind  a  garland  for  you 
Made  all  of  my  fair  hair  ; 
Mingled  with  wild  flowers,  simple  flowers, 
Glittering  with  the  rosary  of  my  tears.  .  .  ." 

The  sad  rosary  of  tears  glitters  in  the  eyes  of  many 
of  the  women  standing  around  ;  it  traces  deep,  damp 
furrows  in  their  weather-beaten  cheeks,  and  drops  slowly 
into  the  folds  of  their  crossed  shawls.  Even  the  men 
themselves  are  moved,  and  keep  wiping  their  eyes  with 
the  backs  of  their  great,  coarse,  tar-stained  hands.  And 
minute  by  minute  the  number  of  listeners  increases  ;  all 
the  Pardon  is  flowing  towards  the  singer,  whose  sun- 
crowned  head  rises  above  the  crowd.  His  shirt  is  un- 
fastened, and  I  can  see  his  naked  breast,  hairy,  like  the 
skin  of  a  wild  beast.     Then  the  song  goes  on — 

"  Corentine  has  set  out  on  her  journey, 
Her  white  staff  in  her  hand  ; 
She  crosses  the  sea  and  follows  the  road 
That  leads  to  heaven  and  to  the  saints. 

"  And  now,  see,  she  has  drawn  so  close 
That  she  can  hear  the  sweet  bells  ringing  ; 
And  as  she  catches  sight  of  the  spire 
She  kneels,  and  breathes  a  prayer  to  Heaven. 

"  As  soon  as  she  sets  foot  in  Rumengol 
She  hastens  to  kiss  the  Virgin's  feet, 
And  says,  '  Dear  Blessed  Mother  of  God, 
Oh  let  me  die  beside  you  here. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        127 

" '  No  longer  have  I  any  one  to  love  me, 

Oh,  be  merciful,  take  me  and  carry  me  away  ; 
My  body  shall  rest  in  the  churchyard  here, 
And  my  soul  shall  go  away  to  live  with  you.'  " 

Here  Yann  pauses,  mops  his  forehead  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, stretches  his  hands  to  the  multitude,  and  in  a 
deep  voice  broken  by  emotion,  says — 

"  Cross  yourselves,  Christians,  the  Virgin  is  going  to 
speak." 

"  Then,  as  the  maid  knelt  before  her,  weeping. 
Said  the  Virgin  in  her  sweet  voice, 
*  On  earth  there  are  only  wicked  men, 
God  save  thee,  oh,  my  little  one. 

"  '  Thy  sweet  soul  and  thy  poor  heart 
Are  now  as  pure  as  gold. 

Then  come  Corentine,  into  the  depths  of  heaven. 
And  praise  my  Son  Jesus,  the  good  Master.' 

"  And  there  as  Corentine  died, 
She  cried  with  a  loud  voice, 
'  I  give  my  heart  to  the  Blessed  Virgin, 
And  my  curse  to  the>  English  ! '  " 

This  final  verse,  the  war-cry  of  the  race,  the  Bard 
flings  out  of  his  full  lungs  with  a  note  so  sharp  and 
vibrating  that  the  crowd  trembles  and  shudders,  as  the 
great  primitive  hatred  of  twelve  hundred  years  ago 
courses  once  more  through  its  veins.  .  .  . 

The  sun  has  risen  high  above  the  horizon  now.  From 
Le  Faou,  Landerneau,  Chateaulin,  brakes  and  omnibuses 
are  beginning  to  arrive,  their  springs  groaning  beneath 
the  weight  of  shopkeepers  and  their  families,  who  have 
come  to  Rumengol,  as  they  would  to  any  fair,  to  make 
fun   of  the   peasants,  and  eat  cold  veal  on  the  grass 


128  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

where  the  pilgrims  have  been  sleeping.  The  true 
Pardon  is  over.  Let  us  haste  away  if  we  wish  to  keep 
unspoiled  the  remembrances  of  the  night  and  of  the 
early  morning. 

I  take  one  more  drink  with  the  old  poet  of  Tregor 
in  the  inn  where  we  met  last  night,  and  there  we  say 
farewell  to  one  another. 

"  I  have  a  feeling,"  says  Yann,  sadly,  "  that  I  shall 
never  again  sing  the  song  of  Plac'hik  Eussa  to  the 
Islanders.  But  that  is  not  what  troubles  me  most ;  it  is 
the  thought  that  the  time  is  drawing  near  when  there 
will  be  an  end  of  all  these  beautiful  gwerz  that  our 
fathers  have  loved,  the  sweet  Sones  which,  even  from 
old  lips  like  mine,  sound  gay  as  the  song  of  birds  in 
springtime.  All  these  things  are  dying,  and  many  others 
that  have  gladdened  our  hearts.  The  Pardons,  alas  ! 
even  the  Pardons  themselves  will  disappear,  though  I 
believe  no  one  but  myself  has  realized  it.  Everywhere 
the  roads  by  which  I  travel  are  bordered  by  ruined 
chapels.  The  ghost  of  a  bell  still  chimes  from  the 
broken  steeple  ;  I  often  hear  its  sad,  mysterious  knell 
as  I  pass  by  in  the  evening.  But,  putting  myself  aside, 
who  is  there  that  lends  an  ear  to  the  warning  ?  Our 
priests  ?  Why,  they  are  the  very  first  to  kill  our  saints, 
to  let  their  worship  fall  into  disuse.  It  is  they  who 
make  bare  our  most  holy  sanctuaries  by  leading  the 
people  away  in  troops  to  foreign  shrines,  to  far-away 
virgins,  to  Lourdes,  to  Salette,  to  Paray-le-Monial ! 
What  right  have  they  to  lead  Breton  devotion  away 
from  its  own  land !  Let  them  beware  lest  so  much 
travelling  does  away  with  it  altogether  !  My  mother 
used  to  cry  out  against  these  new  ways.     "  There  is 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SINGERS        129 

only  one  road  to  paradise,"  she  would  say,  "  and  you 
will  find  it  by  following  in  the  footsteps  of  the  saints  of 
your  own  country."  I  tremble  for  the  days  to  come. 
Thank  God  I  shall  not  live  to  see  them  ;  before  then 
they  will  have  covered  my  face  with  the  cloth,  beneath 
which  a  man  sleeps  for  ever.  .  .  . 

And  now  I  am  making  my  way  back  towards 
Quimerc'h  by  the  footpath  through  the  bracken.  Half- 
way across  I  overtake  two  good  old  women  of  Cor- 
nouailles,  who  in  merry  mood,  with  much  shrugging  of 
shoulders,  are  telling  endless  stories  to  each  other,  both 
speaking  together,  neither  listening  to  what  the  other 
says.  Their  double  soliloquy  follows  me  for  some  time, 
fading  at  last  into  the  deep  peace  of  vast,  unbroken 
silence,  the  entrancing  calm  of  a  wilderness.  To  the 
north  the  woods  of  Kranou  billow  away  into  the  distance, 
towards  the  west  the  ocean  flames  like  a  bowl  of  molten 
gold.  Rumengol,  its  Pardon,  its  beggars,  it  singers,  all 
seem  to  have  glided  down  into  the  shadow  of  the  ravine  ; 
now  the  gilded  saddle  of  Hanvec  country  sinks  in  its 
turn,  while  far,  far  off  in  the  depths  of  the  sky  appear 
the  blue  crests  of  the  Are  Mountains.  Not  a  belfry  to 
be  seen,  not  a  roof,  nor  even  one  of  those  smoke-dried 
cabins  that  sometimes  betray  the  presence  of  man.  Once 
more  there  comes  that  feeling  of  being  in  a  new-made 
land,  a  world  scarce  wakened  out  of  chaos.  The  whole 
country  seems  still  in  its  primitive  form,  and  I  could 
swear  that  not  a  stone  has  been  moved  since  the  fabled 
autumn  evening  when  the  sun  went  down  upon  the  death 
of  Gralon. 

Suddenly  a  cry,  a  loud  sinister  shriek,  that  rips  it<=; 

K 


lao  THE  LAND   OF  PARDONS 

way  through  the  solitude.  Out  of  the  bosom  of  a  hill- 
side rushes  a  train,  and,  in  the  form  of  shaking,  rattling 
carriages,  civilization  passes,  taking  no  heed  of  the  sweet 
fancies  it  crushes,  nor  of  the  grand  old  symbols  it 
destroys.  The  sad  prophecy  of  Yann  Ar  Minouz  comes 
back  to  my  memory.  Shall  we,  indeed,  ever  again  hear 
the  singers  at  the  Pardon  of  Rumengol  ? 

Modest,  charming  Spirit  of  old  Breton  Song,  thy 
votaries  are  becoming  few  indeed.  In  the  new  order  of 
things  it  will  pay  better  to  be  an  innkeeper  than  a  Bard. 
Old  weavers,  country  tailors,  poor  shepherds,  wandering 
sabotiers,  these  are  now  the  only  followers  of  thy  simple, 
heartfelt  worship.  Thy  sweet  voice  is  destined  to  be 
hushed  for  ever,  together  with  the  sound  of  the  last 
spinning-wheel.  To  those  generations  that  have  loved 
and  cherished  thee  others  have  succeeded,  who  are  too 
busy  to  listen,  too  worldly  to  understand. 

Modest,  charming  Spirit  of  old  Breton  Song,  thou 
who  through  so  many  ages  hast  borne  on  thy  wings  the 
hope  of  our  race,  how  sadly  do  I  dream  of  that  hour 
when  thou  shalt  be  no  more. 


TllK   PROCliSSlON    OF   .SAINT   JEAX-I  iL'  in  >!( ,  T 


BOOK   IIL— SAINT  JEAN-DU-DOIGT 
THE    PARDON    OF    FIRE 

DEDICATED   TO   MADAME   EMILE   CLOAREC 

CHAPTER   I 

THE  festival  of  the  summer  solstice,  which  in  other 
regions  has  almost  degenerated  into  a  merry- 
making, is  still  celebrated  in  Brittany,  with  as  deep  and 
intense  a  faith  as  that  of  primitive  man  when  he  knelt 
and  adored  the  sun. 

During  the  night  of  the  twenty-third  of  June,  it  is 
no  exaggeration  to  say,  that  from  the  highlands  in  the 
centre,  to  the  low-lying  coast,  or,  in  Breton  words,  from 
Argoat  to  Armor,  there  is  not  a  village,  a  hamlet,  a  farm 
lying  solitary  in  the  midst  of  its  fields,  no,  nor  even  a 
sabotier's  hut,  buried  beneath  the  woodland  covert,  where 
the  inhabitants  do  not  consecrate  the  symbolical  log, 
invoking  the  sacred  flame  or  prostrating  themselves 
around  the  ashes,  according  to  the  particular  cult  they 
follow.  Through  the  course  of  ages,  the  meaning  of 
the  various  rites  has  been  lost,  but  forms  and  gestures 
remain  exactly  as  they  were  thousands  of  years  ago. 

In  another  book,*  I  have  attempted  to  describe  one 

*  "  Paques  d'Islande." 


132  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

of  these  "  Nights  of  Fire,"  such  as  I  witnessed  it  among 
the  mountains  in  one  of  the  wildest  parts  of  the  Are. 
But  the  place  most  renowned  as  the  centre,  the  special 
sanctuary  of  the  old  solar  worship,  is  on  the  western 
border  of  Tregor,  a  flowery  spot,  covered  with  golden 
gorse,  lying  close  to  the  Cap  du  Primel.  There,  pro- 
tected from  the  sharp  winds  of  the  Channel,  lies  the 
hidden,  delicious  vale  of  Traoun-Meriadek. 

Meriadek  is  a  name  greatly  revered  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Legend  tells  us  that  he  who  bore  it  was  a  person 
of  noble  race,  grand-nephew  of  King  Conan,  that 
Pharamond  of  Brittany.  Albert  of  Morlaix  says  that 
he  died  Bishop  of  Vannes,  after  having  lived  for  many, 
many  years  in  solitude  with  no  other  companion  than 
a  clerk,  and  mentions  as  his  abode  a  spot  very  suitable 
for  such  a  life,  not  far  from  the  town  of  Pontivy.  But 
the  people  of  Traoun-Meriadek  resent  this  tradition. 
"  Every  one  has  a  right  to  his  own  saint,"  say  they. 
"  Meriadek  belongs  to  us  !  He  never  went  away  from 
our  neighbourhood  since  the  blessed  day,  when,  having 
left  the  land  of  the  Saxon,  with  his  brother  Primel,  he 
came  in  a  hollow  rock  garlanded  with  seaweed  to  this 
haven.  The  country  was  pleasant,  sheltered,  full  of 
shady  trees,  cheerful  with  the  song  of  running  waters. 
Said  Meriadek  to  Primel — 

"  *  I  am  the  elder,  I  have  first  choice  ;  I  should  like 
to  stay  here.  As  for  you,  brother,  go  where  God  leads 
you,  and  peace  be  with  you.' 

"  As  Primel  bowed  his  head  in  acquiescence,  he  saw 
a  round  stone  lying  at  his  feet.  Picking  it  up,  he 
brandished  it  aloft,  and  threw  it  in  front  of  him.  As  it 
touched  the  ground  it  began  rolling  along  like  a  ball 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  133 

towards  the  sunset,  and  Primel  followed,  only  stopping 
where  the  stone  finally  stopped,  on  the  rocky  shore  of 
Plougaznou,  where,  so  says  the  legend,  the  stone  had 
dwelt  before  the  sea  tore  it  from  its  native  rock.  And 
Saint  Meriadek  remained  here  with  us,  till  the  time 
when  Saint  John  the  Baptist  joined  him  as  patron  of 
our  church." 

That  is  to  say,  Meriadek  suffered  the  fate  of  many 
of  our  old  national  miracle-workers.  Some  time  in  the 
early  part  of  the  fifteenth  century,  he  was,  if  not  exactly 
banished,  obliged  to  yield  his  place  to  a  newer  form  of 
worship.  No  doubt  he  was  not  considered  sufficiently 
orthodox,  too  many  pagan  elements  remained  mingled 
with  the  devotion  of  which  he  was  the  object.  Even  in 
our  own  days,  the  people  of  these  parts  are  extremely 
conservative  and  intractible,  and  a  hundred  years  ago, 
when  the  traveller  Cambry  came  among  them,  he  was 
struck  by  their  ominous  reserve,  and  the  rude  way  in 
which  they  proclaimed  themselves  "  rough  lads  of  the 
sea-coast."  Potred  called  an  Arvorik.  Cut  off  from 
the  world  by  ramparts  of  steep  hills,  and  by  an  ocean 
bristling  with  rocks,  they  have  remained  obstinately 
attached  to  beliefs  and  practices  thousands  and  thou- 
sands of  years  old.  Perhaps  in  no  other  region  of  Brit- 
tany has  the  ancient  Celtic  nature-worship  remained  so 
unaltered  as  in  this  valley  of  Traoun-Mcriadek.  The 
natural  features  of  the  place  have  contributed  to  this, 
quite  as  much  as  the  circumstances  of  the  people  them- 
selves. On  all  sides  fountains  can  be  heard :  they 
spring  up  in  the  fields  and  meadows,  they  flow  out  of 
the  very  rock  itself,  giving  to  the  landscape  a  sense  of 
endless  fertility,  of  a  never-failing  bosom  pouring  forth 


134  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

strength,  freshness,  health,  yea,  life  itself.  What  wonder 
that  pilgrims  of  all  time  have  knelt  in  adoration  on  the 
margins  of  these  sacred  divonnes  ? 

And  then  lift  your  eyes  to  the  heights  around ! 
Notice  the  great  solemn  promontories  where  the  Sun, 
the  Breton  Heol,  own  brother  to  Helios  the  Greek, 
walks  every  summer  morning,  wrapped  in  the  first  pure 
shimmerings  of  his  delicate  light,  and  at  evening,  leaves 
his  long  rays  of  sumptuous  purple  trailing  behind  him. 
Is  it  surprising  that  generations  of  Celts  have  looked 
upon  this  place  as  his  sanctuary,  an  open  temple  dedi- 
cated to  him  whom  still  they  call  "  the  King  of  Stars," 
the  god  whose  radiant  presence  is  all  the  sweeter  to 
them,  from  being  so  rarely  vouchsafed  in  their  sombre 
climate  ? 

As  it  was  quite  impossible  to  destroy  these  pagan 
customs,  Christianity  tried,  as  we  know,  to  turn  them  to 
her  own  account.  She  raised  chapels  near  the  foun- 
tains, placed  figures  of  the  Virgin  in  crannies  of  the 
sacred  oak  trees,  sanctified  the  old  myths  by  adopting 
them  as  her  own,  substituting  the  names  of  saints  for 
those  of  the  old  gods.  And  so  no  doubt  it  came  to  pass 
that  good  Meriadek,  fabulous  Bishop  of  Vannes,  was 
called  upon  to  receive  the  worship  hitherto  addressed  to 
the  sun  in  this  corner  of  Tregor.  There  are  many 
things  about  him  that  justify  this  theory.  A  certain 
Mystery  Play,  precious  remnant  of  a  lost  dialect,  shows 
him  to  us  endowed  with  the  gift  of  light,  dissipating 
the  darkness  of  sightless  eyes,  opening  the  shadowed 
understanding  to  behold  the  Light  of  lights. 

We  must,  however,  conclude  that  the  worship  of 
Saint  Meriadek  had  scarcely  the  desired  effect  on  the 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  135 

pagan  customs.  The  Breton  soul  is  rather  like  the  soil 
on  which  it  dwells.  You  think  you  have  dug  to  the 
bottom,  and  burned  out  the  very  germs  of  the  weeds. 
Let  it  lie  fallow  for  a  year  ;  the  following  spring  the 
roots  will  revive,  and  gorse,  broom,  all  the  original 
vegetation,  will  flower  as  freshly  as  ever. 

Now,  in  the  fifteenth  century  the  popularity  of  Saint 
Meriadek  was  probably  on  the  wane.  The  ancient  pagan 
undergrowth,  still  alive  and  deeply  vigorous,  had,  inno- 
cently enough,  invaded  the  new  cult,  covering  and 
half  stifling  it.  All  this  was  in  the  natural  order  of 
things,  and  only  to  be  expected  ;  besides — who  can  tell  ? 
even  the  clergy  themselves  had  most  likely  lost  faith  in 
the  powers  of  this  superannuated  saint.  There  is  a 
fashion  in  saints,  which  is  subject  to  change  like  every- 
thing else  in  this  world.  In  Brittany  our  fathers  have 
had  many  proofs  of  this. 

Renan  has  told  us  the  history  of  a  certain  statue  of 
Saint  Budoc,  which  the  cure,  under  pretence  that  it 
had  become  shabby,  surreptitiously  replaced  by  a  figure 
of  our  Lady  of  Lourdes.  What  a  number  of  similar 
tricks  might  be  cited !  Long  would  be  the  list  of 
Breton  parishes  in  which  the  old  Celtic  saint  has  had  to 
give  way  to  Saint  Peter.  In  fact,  that  task  of  Roman- 
izing Brittany,  which  maddened  the  Emperor's  legions, 
is  being  slowly  brought  about  by  the  very  Breton  priests 
themselves.  They  very  soon  began  to  denationalize 
the  religion  of  their  flocks,  and  partially  succeeded. 
Saint  Meriadek  is  only  one  of  many  victims.  One  fine 
day  somebody  noticed  that  he  was  lacking  in  distinc- 
tion,  and  almost  immediately  his  humble  chapel  was 
transformed  into  a  spacious  church,  in  which  the  good 


136  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

old  saint  was  tolerated  as  a  guest,  but  where  the  real 
lord  and  master  from  that  time  forward  was  Saint  John 
the  Baptist.  Even  the  valley  changed  its  name.  No 
longer  was  it  known  as  Traoun-Meriadek  ;  henceforward 
it  was  the  commune  of  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt. 


A,     yv  ,  >A.     ^  .  ,A.     ^Av.'    'JkCi 


M'M 


C^5-  ^    -^--.'; 


THK   (lATKWAV   OF   THK   OLD   ABI'.K.V   Ar    MORI.AIX 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  137 


CHAPTER  II 

WHEN  these  substitutions  have  taken  place,  especi- 
ally in  such  remote  periods  as  that  of  which  we 
are  speaking,  it  is  often  difficult,  not  to  say  impossible, 
to  discover  the  circumstances  under  which  they  occurred. 
Those  who  brought  them  about  were  naturally  not 
anxious  to  perpetuate  the  memory  of  their  deeds;  in 
fact,  they  rather  endeavoured  to  wipe  out  the  remem- 
brance of  the  older  tradition,  in  order  to  strengthen  the 
position  of  its  successor.  But  in  the  present  instance  we 
have  the  good  fortune  to  know  the  whole  story,  thanks 
to  that  most  credulous,  most  unreliable,  but  most 
charming  of  Breton  legendaries,  Albert  Legrand. 

He  lived  in  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
this  Pere  Albert,  at  Morlaix,  where  he  had  been  born, 
and  near  to  where,  in  the  abbey  of  Cuburien,  he  had 
become  a  monk.  He  had  an  educated  mind,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  singularly  childlike  soul.  Like  the  peasants 
from  whom  he  had  sprung,  he  delighted  in  story  and 
legend,  and  his  passion  for  the  marvellous  was  insati- 
able. Towards  the  saints  of  his  country,  the  "  Patron 
Saints,"  as  he  called  them,  his  devotion  was  boundless  ; 
their  surprising  travels,  the  wealth  and  variety  of  their 
adventures,  enchanted  him.  And  these  legends  were 
for  the  most  part  unwritten,  left  to  the  unsafe  keeping 
of  the  human  memory.     It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could 


138  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

not  do  a  more  Christian,  and  at  the  same  time  more 
truly  Breton  work,  than  to  gather  together  and  estabHsh 
them  in  a  book.  So,  as  soon  as  he  had  obtained  per- 
mission from  his  superiors,  he  began  his  great  work. 

And  a  great  work  it  was !  To  begin  with,  he  had 
to  travel  about  all  over  Brittany,  visiting  it  in  detail, 
examining  manuscripts,  questioning  the  people,  stopping 
at  every  church  and  little  oratory  where  any  one  con- 
nected with  our  golden  legend  had  left  the  impress  of 
his  feet  or  the  perfume  of  his  virtues.  From  that  time 
forward  no  one  was  to  be  seen  on  the  roads  save  Albert 
of  Morlaix.  He  was  a  kind  of  Breton  Pausanius.  He 
talked  to  the  peasants  in  their  own  tongue,  which  in 
Brittany  is  the  only  open  sesame.  Being  a  Franciscan 
monk,  all  presbyteries  were  open  to  him  ;  but  even  there 
he  was  not  content  simply  to  converse  with  the  rectors, 
but  would  go  into  the  kitchens,  and  gossip  with  the 
housekeepers,  the  Carabassenn.  Nobody  felt  shy  with 
him,  so  they  told  him  all  they  knew,  and  he,  fervent 
pilgrim  that  he  was,  drank  it  in  with  all  his  ears,  thus 
gathering  sheaf  by  sheaf  his  wonderful  harvest. 

On  his  return  to  Cuburien,  that  calm  place  of  trees 
and  waters,  where  from  his  cell  of  an  evening  he  could 
watch  the  sails  and  listen  to  the  songs  of  the  fisher-folk, 
he  carefully  arranged  the  notes  he  had  taken  during  his 
wanderings,  building  up  through  the  quiet  hours  of  the 
night  his  huge  work,  his  "  Vie  des  Saints  de  la  Bretagne 
Armorique,"  finding  the  utmost  delight  in  gathering 
together  the  scattered  fragments  of  Breton  theogony, 
containing  as  it  does  history,  romance,  epic-poetry,  and 
fairy  tale.  Indeed,  Albert  Legrand  united  in  himself 
something  of  Homer,  of  Hesiod,  of  Herodotus,  and  of 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  139 

Plutarch.  He  was  the  first  and  most  deh'ghtfully 
innocent  of  all  our  folklorists. 

No  road  was  better  known  to  him  than  that  leading 
to  Plougaznou,  the  great  sea-board  parish  upon  which  in 
his  days  depended  the  chaplaincy  of  Saint  Jean-du- 
Doigt.  Even  at  that  time  it  was  much  used  by  the 
good  folks  of  Morlaix,  who  found  it  a  charming  and 
interesting  excursion.  French  and  English  tourists 
were  not  the  first  to  discover  the  massive  geological 
structures  that  buttress  and  support  the  Point  du  Primel. 
The  people  of  those  days  also  loved  to  lie  in  the  great 
shadows,  on  the  thick  fine  carpet  of  grass  that  clothes 
the  base  of  the  huge  rocks,  and  watch  the  magnificent 
horror  of  the  sea,  bristling  even  on  calm  days  with 
glittering,  crested  waves,  breaking  over  the  faces  of 
black  reefs,  which  no  doubt  reminded  them,  too,  of 
monstrous  unicorns.  Brother  Albert  would  have  been 
no  Breton  had  he  not  felt,  through  all  his  being,  the 
magical  charm  of  nature  ;  and  the  lifelong  study  of  his 
native  saints  served  but  to  intensify  this  characteristic. 
He  had  noticed  that  in  choosing  their  homes,  his  heroes 
had  been  guided  no  less  by  aesthetic  instincts  than 
religious  considerations.  While  fleeing  the  world,  so 
as  to  approach  nearer  to  God,  they  certainly  did  not 
deprive  themselves  of  the  beauties  of  nature.  They 
loved  vast  spaces,  through  which  to  roam  in  prayer  and 
contemplation.  Their  abodes  of  penitence  sometimes 
looked  forth  over  solemn  reaches  of  forest,  but  more 
often  faced  the  boundless  infinity  of  the  sea. 

Whether  he  is  speaking  of  the  English  Channel,  or 
of  the  great  Atlantic,  Albert  Legrand  never  mentions 
the  sea  without  a  certain  deep  tenderness.     It  is  plain 


140  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

that  he  loved  her  with  the  changeless  love  that  all  must 
feel  who  have  been  bom  within  sound  of  her  waves. 

But  it  was  not  only  oniaccount  of  the  sea  that  he  had 
a  partiality  for  Plougaznou  and  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt. 
He  was  attracted  by  the  annual  fetes,  which  drew  such 
enormous  crowds  of  pilgrims  from  all  over  Brittany. 
The  remote  little  valley  on  the  confines  of  Tregor  had 
become,  during  the  hundred  years  preceding  his  time, 
the  favourite  haunt  of  national  fervour.  Its  miraculous 
reputation  had  spread  through  the  whole  peninsula, 
and  had  even  been  recognized  officially.  Dukes  of 
Brittany  had  taken  the  humble  ravine  under  their 
special  patronage,  and  had  contributed  towards  the 
building  of  a  fine  new  church  on  the  site  of  the  ancient 
sanctuary.  Moreover,  they  continued  to  show  their 
interest  by  presents  of  various  kinds,  precious  reliquaries, 
heavily  embroidered  banners,  gold  monstrances,  silver 
crosses  covered  with  bells. 

In  the  year  of  grace,  fifteen  hundred  and  six,  the 
last  and  most  significant  seal  was  set  to  the  glory  of 
Traoun-Meriadek.  Queen  Anne,  who,  even  on  the 
throne  of  France,  kept  her  nickname  of  "  Petite  Brette," 
obtained  permission  from  her  royal  husband,  Louis  the 
Twelfth,  to  return  and  comfort  the  soul  of  her  native 
land.  She  wished  to  see  everything,  to  make  her  Tro- 
Breiz  according  to  the  custom  of  that  time,  when  no 
Breton  thought  he  had  done  his  duty  unless  he  had,  at 
least  once  during  his  life,  made  the  "  Pilgrimage  of  the 
Seven  Saints,"  visiting  in  their  own  cathedrals  the 
seven  patriarchal  apostles,  the  seven  spiritual  chiefs 
of  Brittany.  Starting  from  Nantes,  she  passed  by 
Guerande,  Vannes,  Quimper,  visited  Notrc-Dame   du 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  141 

Folgoet,  and  so  arrived  by  Saint  Pol  at  Moriaix,  where 
a  magnificent  reception  awaited  her.  She  came,  how- 
ever, in  bad  health.  Albert  of  Moriaix  tells  us  that 
"  a  defluxion  had  fallen  upon  her  left  eye,"  It  was 
but  natural  that  she  should  be  told  of  the  remedy  that 
lay  so  close  at  hand,  such  an  opportunity  was  too 
good  to  lose ;  she  must  certainly  become  a  patroness 
of  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt.  She  did  not  require  much 
urging,  but,  quite  transported  by  the  marvels  they  told 
her  of  the  place,  requested  to  be  taken  there  on  foot, 
like  the  humblest  pilgrim.  The  utmost  she  would  allow 
was  to  be  carried  in  a  litter  a  portion  of  the  way.  A 
little  past  the  village  of  Kermouster,  just  at  the  top  of 
the  high  bare  ridge,  Lann  ar  Festour,  she  insisted  on 
alighting.  A  calvary  rose  from  the  midst  of  the  gorse 
bushes  by  the  edge  of  the  road,  and  there,  according  to 
tradition,  seating  herself  on  the  step,  she  took  off  her 
shoes,  and  barefoot,  as  the  poem  has  it,  like  the  true 
Bretonne  she  was,  made  her  way  to  Saint  Jean.  I  need 
scarcely  add  that  she  was  immediately  cured,  and  proved 
herself  royally  grateful.  She  began  by  ennobling  all 
the  inhabitants  of  the  little  town,  making  "  a  race  of 
gentlemen,  from  a  clan  of  simple  fisher-folk."  Then,  as 
the  church  was  not  quite  finished,  she  gave  the  where- 
withal to  complete  it.  And  finally,  it  was  she  who 
conceived  the  idea  of  founding  a  well-appointed  hostel 
for  the  crowds  of  pilgrims  who  every  year  came  to 
Traoun-Meriadek,  and  were  obliged,  for  want  of  other 
accommodation,  to  sleep  on  the  open  threshing-floors, 
or  in  the  meadows. 

Over  many  other  gifts  I  must  pass  in  silence,  none 
of  them  were  equal  in  value  to  her  visit  itself     The 


142  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

place  could  not  fail  to  prosper  now  ;  had  it  not  the  most 
glorious  of  all  names  entered  in  its  registers  ?  The  blessed 
Duchess,  La  Douce  des  Douces,  figured  among  the 
number  of  its  healed  ! 

In  the  days  of  Albert  of  Morlaix  its  fortunes  pro- 
bably  reached  their  climax.  Every  twenty-third  of  June, 
the  all-too-narrow  valley  was  crowded  by  thousands  and 
tens  of  thousands  of  devotees,  who  covered  the  hillsides, 
and  spread  even  to  the  seashore.  So  many  people  wish- 
ing to  confess,  to  communicate,  to  be  directed  in  the  com- 
plicated details  of  the  rites,  which  I  shall  endeavour 
presently  to  describe !  Even  to-day  the  local  clergy 
could  not  possibly  manage  it  unaided  ;  how  much  less 
two  hundred  years  ago  ?  It  was  therefore  usual  for  the 
priests  of  the  neighbouring  parishes  to  come  to  their 
assistance  ;  and  no  doubt  the  chief  reinforcement  arrived 
from  that  hive  of  monks,  Cuburien.  And  among  them, 
surely  one  of  the  first  to  offer  himself  for  the  task  would 
be  that  most  zealous  worshipper  of  Breton  saints  and 
holy  places.  Father  Albert.  Who  better  qualified  than 
he,  to  preside  at  these  solemn  assemblies  of  the  Breton 
faithful,  he  who  had  devoted  his  whole  life  to  the  recon- 
struction of  their  history,  the  unravelment  of  their 
origins  ?  It  is  said  that  when  people  caught  sight  of  the 
old  man  in  Morlaix,  they  would  remark  to  one  another, 
"  See,  there  goes  that  man  who  has  been  to  paradise 
and  talked  to  our  saints  !  " 

He  was  just  as  well  known  in  the  country  as  in  the 
town,  and  as  well  beloved — a  rare  privilege,  for  it  does 
not  appear  that  in  Brittany  the  religious  orders  have 
ever  been  very  popular.  The  memory  of  the  people  has 
not  been  kind  to  them,  and  songs,  ballads,  and  legends 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  143 

have  alike  treated  them  with  a  spite  that  has  sometimes 
become  positively  ferocious.  There  are  even  some  that 
rank  the  monk  among  the  most  terrible  of  scourges, 
along  with  leprosy,  famine,  and  plague.  Father  Albert 
is  perhaps  the  only  example  who  has  been  quite  spared 
by  the  vindictive  peasantry. 

"  Oh,  he  ?  "  said  an  old  spinner  of  Lannion,  when  one 
day  we  were  talking  of  him  ;  "  there  have  never  been  two 
men  of  his  kind.  I  have  heard  tell,  that  once  during  his 
lifetime,  he  made  the  journey  to  heaven,  and  that  ever 
afterwards  as  he  walked  about  the  country,  people  could 
tell  when  he  was  coming  by  the  sweet  scent  that  came 
from  his  clothes." 

All  round  about  Morlaix,  and  even  further  away,  no 
great  Pardon  was  ever  held  without  him.  I  can  picture 
him  to  myself,  climbing  the  dusty  hills  in  his  brown  Fran- 
ciscan gown,  bare-headed  beneath  the  hot  sun,  to  whose 
feie  he  is  going,  respectfully  saluted  by  all  the  pilgrims 
he  passes,  mingling  with  them,  speaking  to  them  in  their 
own  tongue,  or  better  still,  drawing  them  out  and  getting 
them  to  talk  to  him.  .  .  .  Then  again  it  is  evening  ;  dusk 
is  falling  in  the  green  valley.  And  in  the  presbytery 
garden,  vast  as  that  of  some  abbey,  hidden  between 
the  high  green  walls  of  the  alleys,  the  gentle  monk, 
who  sometimes  makes  us  think  of  the  founder  of  his 
order,  Francis  of  Assisi,  meditates  among  the  sweet 
scent  of  the  honey-suckle  on  the  sermon  he  is  to  preach 
at  early  Mass  on  the  morrow,  while  overhead  great  flocks 
of  martins  wheel  and  chatter.  Perhaps  in  the  luminous 
dusk  of  that  summer  evening,  he  reads  over  to  Mons. 
Guillaume  le  Roux  of  Plougaznou  the  Ode  in  Latin 
distiches,  which   in   1605   was  published   in  his  Nugse 


144  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

poeticae.  ...  Or  he  turns  over  his  mental  MS.  re- 
specting that  "noble  and  discreet  Yves  Legrand — " 
perhaps  one  of  his  own  ancestors,  a  canon  of  Ldon, 
and  almoner  of  Duke  Francis  the  second — whose 
memoirs,  half  eaten  by  worms,  he  has  unearthed  from 
the  great  treasure-chests  in  the  sacristy  of  Saint  Jean. 
Then,  just  as  the  light  is  failing,  he  strains  his  eyes 
trying  to  decipher  once  more  (restoring  it  here  and 
there  with  the  aid  of  "  a  secret  that  he  possesses  ")  the 
almost  illegible  writing  of  an  old,  old  chart,  written 
by  a  lord  of  Pen-ar-Prat,  in  Guimaec,  which,  according 
to  his  opinion,  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than  the 
authentic  account  of  the  visit  of  Queen  Anne  to  Saint 
Jean,  and  the  supernatural  manifestations  that  occurred 
during  that  visit. 

And  now  that  we  know  his  text,  let  us  get  as  near 
to  his  pulpit  as  possible,  and  listen  to  his  sermon.  The 
yelping  chorus  of  beggars  has  quieted  down  in  the 
graveyard,  and  a  dense  crowd  fills  the  nave,  spreading 
out  through  the  porch  into  the  open,  where  it  can  be 
seen  standing  motionless  and  quiet  among  the  tombs. 
Let  us  try  for  awhile  to  have  the  same  simple  faith  as 
these  pilgrims,  while  the  good  Franciscan  tells  us  the 
story  of  "  The  Miraculous  Translation  of  the  Finger 
of  Saint  John  the  Baptist,  from  Normandy  to  Brittany, 
on  the  first  day  of  August." 


BEGGARS   AT   THE    PARDON   OF   SAIXC   J  KAX-DU-DOIGT 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  145 


CHAPTER  III 

YOU  must  know  that  after  the  beheading  of  the 
great  Forerunner,  his  body  was  taken  away  by 
his  disciples  and  buried  near  the  town  of  Sebaste,  where 
his  tomb  soon  became  the  centre  of  a  number  of  most 
wonderful  miracles.  Even  in  the  days  of  Julian  the 
Apostate,  these  marvels  were  still  so  frequent  that  their 
report  reached  the  ears  of  the  prince.  Furious,  he  ordered 
the  holy  relics  to  be  exhumed,  burned,  and  their  ashes 
scattered  to  the  winds  of  heaven.  Nothing  loth,  the 
Gentiles  hastened  to  obey  the  command  ;  but  as  soon 
as  the  fire  was  lighted  the  rain  began  to  fall,  and  that  so 
heavily,  that  the  flames  were  quite  extinguished.  Some 
Christians,  who  were  on  the  watch,  managed  to  save  a 
few  of  the  bones,  and  put  them  in  a  place  of  safety, 
some  entire,  others  half  consumed,  so  that  afterwards 
they  might  share  them,  and  spread  them  about  in 
different  parts  of  the  world. 

It  would  be  tedious  to  follow  each  of  the  relics  in  its 
wanderings,  though  Father  Albert  does  not  fail  to  do  so. 
Let  us  confine  our  attention  to  the  index  finger  of  the 
right  hand,  the  finger  with  which  Saint  John  pointed  to 
our  Saviour,  while  he  uttered  the  great  prophetic  words, 
"  Behold  the  Lamb  of  God  !  "  The  people  of  Malta 
profess  to  have  this  finger  themselves,  but  Father  Albert 
thinks  that  their  word  must  not  be  taken  too  seriously. 

L 


146  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

He  says  that  they  may  very  likely  possess  one  of  the 
other  fingers  of  the  Baptist's  right  hand,  but  of  the  first 
finger  there  can  be  no  question.  Our  Bretons  would  die 
rather  than  give  up  their  claim  to  its  authenticity.  The 
true  finger  is  at  Plougaznou,  and  nowhere  else ;  even 
the  manner  in  which  it  got  there  proves  that ! 

In  the  commune  of  Buhulien,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Leguer,  a  little  chapel  slumbers,  hushed  by  the  regular 
tick-tack  of  a  mill.  There  it  lies,  of  no  particular  style  or 
age,  hidden  away  in  one  of  the  most  romantic  of  the 
valleys  of  Tregor,  a  rude  place  of  prayer,  surrounded 
by  fields,  whence,  on  the  day  of  its  annual  Pardon,  the 
Lannion  labourers  come  to  gambol.  All  through  the 
rest  of  the  year,  it  has  no  other  visitors  than  cowherds 
and  one  or  two  pilgrims,  who  remain  faithful  to  the 
ancient  cult  of  which  it  is  the  centre.  Within,  just 
above  the  only  altar,  stands  the  figure  of  a  saint  dressed 
in  the  white  robe  of  a  maiden,  the  martyr's  palm  in  her 
hand,  and  around  her  feet,  a  sheaf  of  flames,  that  mount 
towards,  but  never  reach  her.  She  is  called  T6cle,  or,  as 
the  Bretons  say,  Tekla.  This  poor  house  of  prayer  is, 
I  believe,  the  only  place  in  Brittany  consecrated  to  her. 
An  unfinished  legend  tells  us  something  of  her  story. 

She  was  a  native  of  Iconium,  and  one  of  the  first 
converts  of  Saint  Paul.  Her  mother  wished  her  to 
marry,  but  rather  than  do  so  she  was  willing  to  suffer 
the  most  cruel  tortures.  Condemned  to  be  burned  alive, 
she  sprang  of  her  own  accord  into  the  fire  ;  but  imme- 
diately the  flames  drew  back,  refusing  to  injure  her 
body,  or  to  soil  her  dress.  At  the  same  time  the  rain 
began  to  fall,  extinguishing  the  fire,  to  the  consternation 
of  the  executioners.      You  will  notice  that  the   same 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  147 

intervention  took  place  as  at  the  burning  of  the  Baptist's 
body ;  can  this  be  the  reason  why  Tekla  passed  after- 
wards for  one  of  those  pious  people  who  helped  to  carry 
his  relics  to  Western  Europe?  Albert  Legrand  gives 
us  no  help  about  all  this  ;  he  is  only  interested  in  the 
history  of  his  own  country,  and  Tekla,  foreign  saint 
that  she  was,  does  not  concern  him.  It  is  not  even 
likely  that  he  ever  visited  the  shady  valley  of  the 
Leguer,  where  the  roof  of  her  little  chapel  rises,  like  that 
of  a  sabotier's  hut,  from  among  the  tall  grasses  that 
surround  it.  He  tells  us  with  his  usual  candour,  that  all 
he  knows  of  this  young  girl  is,  that  at  some  date  of 
which  he  is  ignorant,  she  made  a  present  to  a  certain 
town  in  Normandy  of  the  precious  finger. 

One  of  Father  Albert's  commentators,  Mons.  de 
Kerdanet,  thinks  he  has  discovered  the  name  of  this 
town.  According  to  him,  it  was  the  village  of  Saint 
Jean  du  Day,  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Saint  L6.  A 
great  lord  of  this  district,  wherever  it  was,  had  in  his 
service  a  Breton  of  Plougaznou,  but  we  are  not  told  in 
what  capacity.  As,  however,  our  historian  explains 
that  it  was  during  the  time  when  the  French,  led  by 
Jeanne  d'Arc  and  Richemont,  finished  driving  the  last 
of  the  English  from  Normandy,  we  may  presume  that 
our  Tregorrois  (pity  it  is,  as  the  writer  says,  that  we  do 
not  know  his  worthy  name) — it  is  to  be  presumed,  I  say, 
that  our  Tregorrois  was  engaged  to  fight  the  hereditary 
foe,  the  hated  Saxon,  There  were  many  Breton  youths 
who  sold  themselves,  willingly  enough,  to  serve  during 
this  Hundred  Years'  War.  Even  the  women,  glowing 
with  mystic  enthusiasm,  started  forth  as  upon  a  crusade. 
The   story   is   still   told    of   the   humble    devotee,    La 


148  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

Pierronne,  who,  led  away  by  her  dreams,  set  out,  chaplet 
in  hand,  with  no  other  companion  than  a  peasant  girl, 
and  who,  if  she  did  not  attain  to  the  glorious  celebrity  of 
"  La  Pucelle,"  had  at  least  this  in  common  with  her,  that 
she  obeyed  the  same  call,  and  died  the  same  death. 

All  this  makes  it  probable  that  our  young  man  of 
Plougaznou  had  hired  himself  out  as  a  soldier.  .  .  .  His 
engagement  finished,  he  set  forth  on  his  way  home. 
He  returned  much  richer  than  he  started,  though  with 
a  kind  of  riches  that  showed  how  entirely  he  was  a  son 
of  his  country  and  race.  While  those  soldiers,  who  had 
been  drawn  from  other  parts  of  France  to  fight  under 
his  lord's  banner,  sought  to  enrich  themselves  with  spoil, 
as  was  customary  in  those  days,  imagine  what  was  the 
kind  of  booty  this  Breton  coveted  above  all  other 
treasure.?  .  .  .  The  finger  of  Saint  John,  do  you  say? 
Yes,  you  have  guessed  right !  Every  time  he  attended 
Mass  or  Vespers  in  the  church  (for  a  Breton  is  as  con- 
scientious about  his  prayers  as  his  fighting),  he  could  not 
turn  away  his  eyes  from  the  reliquary,  in  which  the 
blessed  finger  was  exposed  to  view.  Not  that  he  ever 
dreamed  of  stealing  it — such  a  sacrilegious  idea  would 
have  been  horrible  to  his  devout  soul !  "  And  yet," 
thought  he,  sadly,  "  ivhat  a  present  it  would  be  for  my 
parish  church !  " 

The  evening  before  his  departure  arrived,  and  for  the 
last  time  he  went  to  his  accustomed  place  before  the 
altar,  to  say  farewell  to  the  holy  finger.  For  a  long 
time  he  remained  prostrate,  projecting  all  the  powers  of 
his  being  towards  the  object  he  so  earnestly  desired. 
When  he  rose  he  was  surprised  to  feel  himself  quite 
another  man ;  not  only  had  he  ceased  to  experience  any 


THE   PARDON  OF  FIRE  149 

regret  at  going  away,  but  a  strange  activity  had  taken 
possession  of  his  limbs,  and  a  mysterious  joy  exalted 
his  heart  and  mind.  He  set  out  with  so  light  a  step 
that  it  was  as  though  he  had  wings.  He  scarcely  walked, 
he  was  borne  along.  The  steep  roads,  worn  into  deep 
ruts,  and  still  paved  here  and  there  by  enormous  flag- 
stones, seemed  to  melt  away  beneath  his  feet,  becoming 
soft  and  pleasant  as  the  carpet  before  an  altar.  As  he 
passed,  the  grass  on  the  high  bank  thrilled  as  though  it 
were  alive ;  the  trees  bent  down  towards  him  in  respectful 
homage,  and  their  leaves  gave  forth  a  rustling  of  in- 
distinct words,  a  pious  murmuring,  like  a  prayer  sung 
in  unison  ;  even  the  stones  moved  aside  for  him. 

At  the  first  village  he  passed  through,  on  the  evening 
of  that  day,  he  produced  an  even  stranger  phenomenon. 
All  the  bells  of  all  the  steeples  began  ringing  of  their 
own  accord,  though  the  churches  were  already  closed 
for  the  night ;  and  this  Breton  lad  was  received  with  a 
triumphant  peal  such  as  had  never  been  heard  before  ; 
no,  not  even  at  the  visit  of  the  archbishop  !     The  terri- 
fied peasants  took  it  for  a  call  to  arms,  and  when  at 
last  they  found  all  the  cause  of  this  musical  uproar  to 
be  nothing  but  a   ragged   vagabond,  with   the  vacant 
manner  of  a  fool,  they  stopped  him.     When  questioned, 
he  had  nothing  to  say  ;  besides,  how  could  he,  with  his 
Plougaznou  dialect,  understand  these  Normans  ?     So  he 
was  accused  of  sorcery,  and   thrown   into  jail,  till  he 
could  be  sent  up  for  trial.     However,  he  was  in  no  way 
dismayed,  but  went  peacefully  to  sleep,  and  dreamed 
that   he  was  seated    on    the    hillside,    above    Traoun- 
Meriadek,  on  the  spot  where,  from  time  immemorial,  the 
Tantad,  or  Sacred    Fire  has  been   lighted.     When  he 


150  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

woke  in  the  morning  he  looked  vainly  around  for  the 
sombre  walls  of  the  prison.  He  found  that  his  dream 
had  become  reality,  and  that,  in  fact,  he  zvas  seated  on 
the  fine,  sweet-scented  grass  of  the  Breton  hillside.  Of 
the  cell  there  was  no  trace.  Overhead,  in  place  of  the 
stone  vaulting,  stretched  the  infinity  of  the  open  sky. 
The  flaming  August  sun  was  just  rising  from  among 
the  last  mists  of  dawn  ;  the  rosy  drops  that  night  had 
left  hanging  from  the  spiders'  webs  in  the  gorse  bushes, 
sparkled  like  rubies  and  diamonds,  and  away  in  the 
north,  the  misty  mirrors  of  the  sea  reflected  the  delicate 
rainbow  hues  of  the  sun's  earliest  rays.  The  wanderer 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  for  was  he  not  once  more  in  his 
native  land  ?  His  eyes  wandered  over  the  familiar 
objects  around  him  ;  the  voices  of  his  fatherland  sounded 
in  his  ears  ;  while  behind  its  moss-grown  enclosure 
murmured  a  magic  fountain,  which  more  than  once  he 
had  consulted  about  his  destiny.  Rising  towards  him 
from  the  depths  of  the  valley,  the  bells  of  Saint  Meriadek 
sounded  a  clear,  gay  chime. 

He  rose  and  made  his  way  down  the  steep  descent. 
At  that  time  the  village  consisted  of  only  two  or  three 
cottages.  The  wheelwright,  the  innkeeper,  each  gave  a 
"  Good  day  "  to  the  traveller,  recognizing  him  as  a  fellow- 
countryman.  Never  even  turning  his  head,  however,  by 
way  of  answer,  he  crossed  the  steps  into  the  churchyard 
and  hastened  towards  the  chapel,  where  morning  service 
was  about  to  begin.  A  congregation  of  faithful  women 
had  assembled,  kneeling,  to  hear  Mass,  and  our  friend 
took  his  place  among  them,  bowing  himself  in  prayer. 
Suddenly,  as  he  knelt,  with  folded  hands,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  his  right  palm  opened.     No  blood  flowed,  but 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  151 

from  the  gaping  wound  something  shot  forth,  flew  over 
the  rail  of  the  choir,  and  ah'ghted  from  the  epistle  side 
on  the  cloth  of  the  High  Altar.  At  the  same  moment 
the  candles  flamed  up,  though  no  one  had  lighted  them, 
and  in  the  tower  the  bells  (whose  cords  were  pulled  by- 
no  mortal  hands)  broke  forth  triumphantly,  sending  the 
most  superb  carillon  to  the  four  corners  of  heaven. 

You  can  imagine  the  crowd  that  gathered  in  the  old 
chapel !  Everybody  came  running  from  all  the  country 
round  about :  noble  ladies  ambling  down  towards 
Traoun-Meriadek  on  their  palfreys  ;  harvestmen,  though 
it  was  August,  leaving  their  sickles  among  the  corn,  and 
coming,  just  as  they  were,  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  all  dis- 
ordered by  labour.  I  need  scarcely  say  that  among 
them  were  the  relatives  of  the  young  Breton.  As  soon 
as  they  had  em.braced  him,  they  cried  :  "  What  is  it  all 
about  ?     Oh,  what  is  it  all  about  ? " 

It  certainly  was  all  about  that  object  which  had  so 
strangely  sprung  from  the  arm  of  the  soldier  on  to  the 
altar,  and  that,  as  you  have  no  doubt  guessed,  was  the 
finger  of  Saint  John  !  The  precious  relic  had  not  been 
able  to  support  the  idea  of  being  separated  from  its 
devoted  adorer,  and,  lodged  between  the  skin  and  the 
flesh  without  his  knowledge,  had  given  the  Normans  the 
slip,  and  come  to  settle  in  Brittany  all  for  love  of  the 
soldier. 


152  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 


CHAPTER  IV 

SUCH,  with  a  few  popular  additions,  is  the  outline  of 
the  legend  of  which  the  pious  historian  of  Morlaix 
has  left  us  a  record.    How  much  truth  is  there  in  it  all  ? 
and  are  we  actually  to  believe  that  this  lad  of  Plougaznou 
carried  away  with  him,  if  not  between  his  skin  and  flesh, 
perhaps  at  the  bottom  of  his  knapsack,  the  fruit  of  his 
pious  theft  ?     This  is  a  very  difficult  question,  which  I 
certainly  cannot  undertake  to  answer !     It  is,  however, 
worth   notice,   that,   according   to    Father   Albert,    the 
whole  affair  happened  in  the  reign  of  Duke  John,  the 
fifth  of  that  name ;  that  this  duke  fought  a  great  deal 
in  Normandy  against  the   English,  and    that   he   was 
singularly  addicted  to  religion,  never  losing  an  oppor- 
tunity of  showering  his   magnificent  bounty  upon  his 
favourite  churches.     It  was  he,  who,  when  a  prisoner  of 
the  Lord   of  Clisson,  vowed,  that  if  he  were   set   at 
liberty,  he  would  make  a  pilgrimage  to  Jerusalem  ;  and 
he,  too,  who  not  finding  suitable  leisure  to  go  himself, 
sent  in  his  place,  "  Un  homme  notable,  et  suffisant,"  with 
instructions  to  offer  a  gift  of  a  hundred  gold  florins  at 
the  holy  sepulchre. 

He  was  no  less  liberal  towards  the  Breton  churches, 
as  you  may  see  by  referring  to  the  registers  of  their 
treasures.  He  founded  Masses,  and  gave  pious  gifts  to 
Saint  Julian  de  Vouvantes,  to  Notre  Dame  du  Mene, 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  153 

to  Notre  Dame  du  Bodon,  and  also  to  Notre  Dame  de 
Brelevenez,  that  stands  perched  so  prettily  at  the  top 
of  its  three  hundred  stone  steps  on  the  green  hill  by 
Lannion.  Was  it  not  he,  also,  who  built  a  tomb  covered 
with  silver  in  the  cathedral  of  Treguier,  dedicated  to 
the  memory  of  Saint  Yves  ?  And  who  shall  tell  of  the 
princely  gifts  he  lavished  on  the  church  of  Le  Folgoet ! 
The  clergy  of  Plougaznou  must  often  have  envied  this 
gilded  hand,  that  rained  gifts  on  every  church  save 
theirs.  What  they  coveted  was  not  so  much  the  gifts 
themselves,  as  the  glory  of  them.  It  is  very  hard  to 
see  all  other  cults  prospering,  while  one's  own  church 
remains  poor,  and  one's  neighbourhood  of  no  account. 
Doubtless,  there  was  this  pilgrimage  every  twenty-fourth 
of  June  to  the  chapel  of  Saint  Meriadek,  this  Pardon  of 
Fire,  as  it  was  called.  But  quite  apart  from  its  very 
questionable  orthodoxy,  the  crowd  of  rough  peasants 
who  came  to  it  were  scarcely  likely  to  give  it  that  eclat 
which  would  attract  the  notice  of  the  duke. 

Ah,  if  only  one  among  the  rustics  might  develop 
into  a  saint,  like  that  worthy  innocent,  Salaiin,  whose 
heavenly  visions  during  the  preceding  century  had  made 
the  fortune  of  Notre  Dame  du  Folgoet  ! 

It  is  said  that  a  great  wish  often  ends  by  accom- 
plishing its  own  object,  and  we  know  that  in  no  other 
country  is  the  spirit  of  mysticism  so  strong  as  in  Brit- 
tany. Legend  comes  about  quite  easily  and  naturally, 
and  that  of  the  finger  of  Saint  Jean,  born  under  the 
shady  branches  of  Traoun-Meriadek,  soon  spread  its 
wings  and  flew  away,  on  the  lips  of  men,  to  the  ears  of 
Duke  John  the  fifth  himself.  He  had  in  his  court  a 
certain   Meriadek  Guicaznou,  whose  name  reveals  his 


154  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

birthplace,  who  was  not  behindhand  in  telling  his  master 
of  the  wonderful  miracle  that  had  taken  place  in  his 
native  village.  It  was  a  clever  and  charming  story,  just 
the  thing  to  please  the  popular  imagination.  But  for 
the  duke  himself  it  must  have  had  a  special  interest, 
and  that  for  two  reasons.  First,  because  this  conquest 
of  the  relic  had  been  effected  by  one  of  his  own  men-at- 
arms  ;  and  also  because  the  finger  had  belonged  to 
Saint  John,  his  special  patron.  So  that,  even  if,  as 
that  stern  Benedictine  Dom  Lobineau  would  have  us 
believe,  the  legend  was  invented  from  first  to  last,  it 
was,  at  all  events,  sure  to  bring  about  the  happiest  of 
good  fortune,  for  Plougaznou. 

And,  in  fact,  from  that  day  forward,  the  rustic 
solitude  of  Traoun-Meriadek  was  glorified  and  cele- 
brated. Ducal  favour  was  extended  towards  it,  shown 
first  by  moderate  offerings,  such  as  a  silver  reliquary  to 
contain  the  precious  finger.  Then  followed  large  sums 
of  money,  to  permit  of  the  erection  of  a  nave  capable  of 
holding  the  multitude  of  gentlefolks,  who,  as  soon  as 
the  prince  had  taken  this  corner  of  the  earth  under  his 
mighty  protection,  came  riding  toward  it,  by  the 
narrow,  stony  paths  trodden  hitherto  by  none  but 
peasants.  Less  than  three  years  after  the  date  which 
Albert  Legrand  gives,  as  that  of  the  translation  of  the 
finger,  that  is  to  say,  1540,  the  foundation  stone  of  the 
present  church  was  laid^  on  the  site  of  the  old,  original 
chapel,  and  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt  became  one  of  the 
great  pilgrimage  shrines  of  Brittany. 

At  the  end  of  the  eighteenth  century  its  prestige 
had  not  declined.  Cambry,  who  visited  it  during  the 
Directoire,  speaks  of   it    in  terms  which,  if  somewhat 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  155 

irreverent,  as  befitted  a  follower  of  Voltaire,  show  none 
the  less,  that  it  was  still  enjoying  a  great  prosperity  : 
"  Nothing  has  been  neglected,"  says  he,  "  that  will  help 
to  strike  the  imagination  of  the  numberless  pilgrims,  who 
flock  to  this  place  of  miracles  and  enchantments.  The 
lanes  leading  to  it  are  sacred.  Here  and  there,  rudely 
sculptured  saints,  painted  and  gilded,  stand  on  the  road- 
side beside  inns,  where  heads  grow  muddled  by  brandy 
fumes." 

When  the  Revolution  passed  away,  and  the  church 
of  Saint  Jean  reopened  its  doors,  the  rich  treasure  was 
intact ;  not  one  of  the  magnificent  ornaments  was 
missing ;  even  the  monuments  had  in  no  way  suffered. 
You  will  search  vainly  for  any  trace  of  those  acts  of 
barbarism  that  so  sadly  left  their  marks  on  other 
churches,  and  it  goes  without  saying,  that  the  credit  of 
this  miracle  was  given  to  the  precious  relic.  The  folks 
of  the  village  declared  that  at  night  they  had  seen  the 
great  archangels,  flaming  sword  in  hand,  fighting  before 
the  windows. 

But  this  was  not  the  only  marvel  they  had  to  tell. 

It  happened  in  '93,  Robespierre's  year.  As  it  had 
been  proposed  by  the  laity,  in  default  of  the  usual 
religious  services,  to  celebrate  the  Tantad,  a  republican 
of  Plougaznou  came,  in  the  name  of  the  commissioners 
of  the  district,  to  forbid  the  lighting  of  the  Sacred  Fire, 
with  a  threat  that,  if  the  order  were  disobeyed,  the 
guilty  persons  would  have  to  appear  before  the  Revolu- 
tionary Tribunal.  The  prospect  of  prison,  and  possible 
guillotine,  frightened  the  boldest.  The  traditional  fire 
was  not  lighted.  But  at  the  very  hour  when  it  was 
usual  to  plunge  in  the  first  flaming  brand,  a  huge  fiery 


156  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

glow  suddenly  spread  over  the  night  sky,  in  the  direction 
of  Plongaznou  ;  and  such  was  the  violence  of  the 
flames  that  their  reflection  lighted  up  the  distant  sea. 
The  republican  of  Plougaznou  rushed  frantically  towards 
the  spot.  It  was  his  farm  that  was  blazing.  When  he 
reached  the  height  on  which  it  had  stood,  he  found 
nothing  but  a  heap  of  glowing  embers.  Of  all  his 
many  cattle,  the  finest  in  the  countryside,  not  one  was 
left ;  they  had  been  burned  alive  in  their  stables.  For 
days  afterwards  the  smoke  of  their  roasted  flesh  lay 
over  the  country  like  the  terrible  vapour  from  some 
great  burnt-offering. 

The  culprit  was  sought  everywhere,  but  in  vain.  In 
fact,  no  one  doubted  that  Saint  John  himself  had 
wrought  this  vengeance,  by  means  of  which  he  had 
prevented  a  far  more  terrible  catastrophe.  For  it  is  a 
local  saying,  that  if  no  fire  be  lighted  at  the  fete  of 
Saint  Jean-du-Doigt,  no  sun  will  be  seen  through  all  the 
succeeding  year. 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  157 


CHAPTER  V 

'T^HE  sun  !  It  was  at  the  touch  of  his  first  rays  that 
-*-  I  opened  my  eyes  on  June  the  twenty-third,  1 898, 
to  find  myself  in  the  hospitable  dwelling  of  Kerselina. 
And  never,  I  think,  had  his  light  appeared  more  beautiful 
to  me  than  in  this  calm,  Arcadian  scene  of  wooded  hills, 
among  which,  with  supple,  sparkling  radiance,  wound 
the  flowing  curves  of  the  Morlaix  river.  It  almost 
seemed  as  though  the  great  orb  was  conscious  that  his 
fete  was  about  to  be  celebrated.  He  glittered  through 
the  fine  morning  mists  with  a  soft,  opalescent  radiance. 
His  kiss  ran  over  the  sloping  verdure  of  the  hills  in  a 
silent  waterfall  of  golden  spray  ;  then  strewed  with  gems 
the  green  sward  beside  the  river  ;  painted  the  towing- 
path  all  purple ;  spangled  the  gravel  bank  with  gold- 
dust  ;  and  finally,  spread  in  long  quivering  sheets  over  the 
estuary,  whose  still,  shrouded  face  suddenly  brightened 
and  flushed  with  the  coming  of  the  life-blood.  .  .  . 

"  Come,"  cried  a  friendly  voice  beneath  my  window, 
"the  Locquenole  boats  must  be  getting  under  sail." 

Years  ago  it  was  usual  for  pilgrims  living  near  the 
coast  to  go  to  the  Pardon  of  Saint  John  by  sea.  From 
the  havens  of  Leon  and  Tregor  hundreds  of  little  boats 
would  set  sail  at  dawn,  bearing  whole  parishes  towards 
the  other-time  deserted  bay  of  Traoun-Meriadek.  Old 
folks  of  the  countryside  still  tell  with  enthusiastic  regret 


158  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

of  these  nautical  processions.  At  the  head  of  each 
miniature  fleet,  like  some  foreign  galley,  sailed  a  newly- 
painted,  splendidly  decorated  fishing-boat.  During  the 
previous  night  the  women  had  garlanded  it  with  flowers, 
and  sheafs  of  iris,  bunches  of  hollyhocks,  hydrangeas,  and 
sunflowers  ornamented  its  bows.  The  processional  cross, 
the  heavy  silver  or  golden  cross,  on  which  little  bells 
hung  tinkling,  was  lashed  firmly  to  the  top  of  the  high 
mast.  On  the  white,  draped  deck  was  fastened  the 
image  of  the  patron  saint,  for  in  those  days  the  very 
saints  themselves  went  on  pilgrimage.  If  they  were 
left  behind  they  would  quit  their  niches,  we  are  told, 
and  reach  the  porch  of  Saint  Jean  by  some  supernatural, 
inexplicable  route  of  their  own,  so  the  greatest  care  was 
always  taken  to  bring  them.  Around  the  image  stood 
the  clergy,  the  sacristan,  the  choristers,  all  robed,  and 
singing  in  unison  the  proper  hymn  : — 

"  Sceptriger  vasti  moderator  orbis.  .  .  ." 

And  thus  to  the  sound  of  singing  the  sacred  boat 
sailed  on  its  way,  followed  by  twenty  or  thirty  humbler 
craft,  which  in  the  intervals  between  the  verses  took  up 
the  song  like  a  refrain  : — 

"  Nempe  divini  Digitum  Prophetas.  .  .  ." 

The  voices  spread  out  beneath  the  resounding  sky, 
till  a  vast  gladness  seemed  to  stretch  over  the  sea.  .  .  . 
But  to-day  these  sacred  pageants  are  a  thing  of  the 
past,  and  perhaps  it  is  as  well ;  they  had  their  risks. 
In  Brittany  the  weather  that  promises  best  is  often  the 
most  treacherous,  and  all  along  the  torn  coast,  bristling, 
as  it  does,  with  rocks  and  shreds  of  islands,  the  Channel 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  159 

currents  have  a  strength  as  terrible  as  invisible.  The 
boatmen  know  it  well,  and  under  ordinary  circumstances 
are  careful  enough.  But  what  would  you  have !  The 
Pardon  of  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt  only  happens  once  a 
year.  What  accident  could  come  on  such  a  day  ?  Away 
with  everyday  precautions !  It  would  be  an  insult  to 
the  saint  not  to  put  all  one's  trust  in  him  !  So  they 
would  hoist  the  sail  gaily,  and  start  off  merrily  enough. 
The  bells  rang,  canticles  floated  through  the  summer 
air,  till  a  pious  intoxication  (perhaps  even  another  kind 
of  excitement  ;  something  less  ideal)  raised  their  spirits, 
and  made  them  less  watchful.  Who  dreamed  of  changes 
in  the  sky,  treacheries  in  the  sea,  then  ?  Suddenly,  when 
the  boats,  crowded  with  human  beings,  reached  the 
rough  waters  of  the  open  sea,  they  would  be  found 
heavy  to  steer,  tiring,  almost  unmanageable.  If  even 
a  puff  of  wind  caught  them  abeam  there  was  a  possi- 
bility of  disaster,  even  in  the  finest  weather ;  and  if 
instead  of  a  puff  a  storm  sprang  up,  one  of  those  sudden 
June  storms  that  break  forth  as  soon  as  conceived, 
sweeping  the  sea  like  a  round  of  grape-shot,  then  the 
catastrophe  would  be  inevitable  ;  boat  and  passengers 
would  disappear  for  ever ! 

The  fasts  preceding  the  Pardon  of  Saint  Jean  have 
often  been  overshadowed  by  such  disasters,  but  I  need 
scarcely  say  that  every  one  has  done  their  best  to  make 
a  forget  of  them.  There  is  not  one  inscription  to  be 
found  in  the  graveyard  of  Traoun-Meriadck  recording 
the  numbers  or  dates  of  such  losses.  The  chapels  of 
Paimpol  contain  many  short  inscriptions  commemora- 
tive of  fishing-boats  swallowed  up  among  the  fiords  of 
Iceland,  but  of  these  wrecks,  nothing !     No  mention  of 


160  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

the  many  pilgrims  engulfed,  no  word  to  appease  their 
spirits!  You  must  not  conclude,  however,  that  their 
memory  has  entirely  perished.  The  people's  muse  has 
show  herself  pitiful  towards  some  of  them,  and  has 
embalmed  them  with  her  tears. 

I  spent  several  years  of  my  childhood  at  the  little 

town  of  Ploumilliau,  near  Lannion.     There  at  regular 

intervals  a  very  curious  individual  would  appear,  whom 

our  world   of   boys   always   hailed    with  the   greatest 

delight.    He  was  called  Nonnic  Plougaznou.    Plougaznou 

because,   I    suppose,  he   came   from   that   part   of  the 

country  ;  Nonnic  (diminutive  of  Yves,  or  Yvon)  because, 

despite  his  advanced  age,  he  had  remained,  physically 

and  mentally,  a  poor  little  scrap  of  a  creature.     He  was, 

in  fact,  a  tiny  old  man,  scarcely  taller  than  ourselves, 

though  we  were  all  small  boys,  who  had  not  made  our 

first  communion.     Had  it  not  been  for  his  figure,  his 

proportions,  above  all,  for  his  grey  hair,  any  one  might 

well  have  taken  him  for  a  child,  as  we  led  him  along  in 

our  midst,  with  his  round,  beardless  face,  soft  wrinkles, 

more  like  rolls  of  fat,  mouth  always  laughing  at  nothing 

particular,  and  eyes  clear  and  limpid  as  a  stream — eyes 

whose  truthfulness  had  never  been  shadowed.     It  was  a 

strange  riddle  of  a  face — that  of  an  infant  sexagenarian, 

an  aged  cherub.     And  as  for  his  soul,  nothing  could 

equal  its  sweet  simplicity!     He  called  himself,  as  he 

believed  himself,  the  son  of  a  king,  and  in  order  that 

his  dress  might  correspond  with  his  birth,  he  made  it  a 

rule  never  to  wear  clothes  like  those  of  any  one  else. 

And,  certainly,  the  strangeness  of  his  costume  did  give 

him  a  certain  resemblance  to  the  scion  of  some  negro 

monarch.  He  had,  moreover,  all  the  passion  of  the  savage 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  161 

for  civilized  tinsel,  and  people  used  to  flatter  this  inno- 
cent taste  by  putting  aside  all  kinds  of  out-of-date  and 
extravagant  garments  for  him,  in  which  he  would  proudly 
appear.  I  have  seen  Nonnik  Plougaznou  arrayed  in 
sky-blue  coats,  dating  back  to  the  time  of  the  Revolu- 
tion ;  hussars'  waistcoats  that  must  have  been  through 
the  battlefields  of  the  empire  ;  red  shirts  that  had  been 
worn  by  the  followers  of  Garibaldi,  and  reached  that  far 
Western  land  through,  who  shall  say,  what  adventures  ! 
There  was  only  one  article  of  his  costume  that  never 
varied — his  high  hat,  green  with  rain,  burned  by  the 
sun,  ragged  and  bruised,  a  melancholy,  crumbling  ruin, 
encircled  with  a  crown  of  artificial  flowers.  This  crown 
was  to  Nonnik  the  emblem  of  his  royalty,  and  he  would 
have  died  sooner  than  allow  any  one  to  touch  it. 

He  had  the  sunniest  of  tempers.  True,  he  would 
raise  his  stick  when  our  merry  band  pressed  too  closely 
around  him,  but  only  with  the  same  air  with  which 
he  might  have  shown  us  his  sceptre,  had  he  had  one. 
There  was  not  one  among  us  who  would  ever  have  been 
in  the  least  disrespectful  to  him,  for  idiots  are  sacred  in 
Brittany.  Besides,  in  offending  him,  we  might  have 
deprived  ourselves  of  one  of  our  greatest  treats — that 
of  hearing  him  sing.  He  sang  as  sweetly  as  any  night- 
ingale, did  this  fantastic,  witless  wanderer,  in  his  incon- 
gruous plumage.  It  was  on  the  stone  steps  of  the 
graveyard  that  he  would  seat  himself  when  he  came  to 
Ploumilliau.  There,  taking  off  one  of  his  sabots,  he 
would  rest  it  against  his  shoulder  as  though  it  had  been 
a  violin,  and  with  his  raised  right  hand  play  on  the 
absent  strings  with  an  imaginary  bow.  No  doubt  at 
his  call  from  the  depths  of  that  rough  wood  came  a 


162  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

music  of  silence,  of  which  he  only  was  conscious.  He 
was  no  longer  the  same  man.  His  slightly  bent  face 
was  transfigured  ;  a  passionate  fervour  lighted  his  eyes  ; 
the  rather  foolish  smile  on  his  lips  grew  suddenly  into 
something  mysterious  and  haunting.  Standing  there 
before  him,  we  enjoyed  a  silent  share  of  his  ecstasy, 
knowing  that  it  was  his  usual  prelude.  At  last,  with  the 
gentle  murmur  of  flowing  water,  his  voice,  quite  a  young 
voice,  fresh  and  pure  as  a  fountain,  would  come  flowing 
forth.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that  no  such  voice  now 
exists  in  Brittany.  How  I  wish  that  Nonnik  had  been 
alive  when  Mons.  Bourgault  Ducoudray  undertook  the 
task  of  gathering  together  the  Breton  songs.  I  know 
that  the  master  would  have  said  he  was  the  direct 
inheritor  of  one  of  those  Armorican  or  Welsh  harpists, 
who  held  so  powerful  a  position  in  the  Europe  of  the 
Middle  Ages.  He  had  the  natural  gift  of  song,  and  as 
for  us,  he  held  us  spellbound. 

It  was  not  that  he  had  a  particularly  large  repertoire. 
Nonnik  was  ignorant  of  any  world  outside  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  Plougaznou  and  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt.  This 
corner  of  the  earth,  the  first  he  had  seen,  remained 
shining  as  the  only  light,  the  only  familiar  landmark,  in 
the  confused  night  of  his  intellect.  Was  not  his  fairy 
palace  there,  among  the  turreted  rocks  of  the  Chateau 
de  Primel  ?  To  make  known  the  legends  of  that 
country  was  to  him  like  singing  the  glory  of  his  own 
family,  and  to  it  he  devoted  himself  with  all  the  fervour 
of  a  high  priest.  But  his  great  triumph  was  a  certain 
gwerz,  the  Lament  of  Matelina  Troadek.  Into  it  he 
would  put  such  pathos  and  melancholy,  that  positively 
he  wounded  our  very  souls. 


P-f**  ^SJI^i^EffipsaiiWKJK 


Jsl^'^l 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  163 

The  event  recorded  by  this  lament  occurred  in  the 
second  half  of  the  seventeenth  century,  during  the  life- 
time of  Locmaria,  Lord  of  Guerrande,  a  friend  of 
Madame  de  Sevigne.  By  his  Breton  vassals  he  was 
called  "  Markis  Brun,"  The  Red  Marquis,  not  so  much 
from  the  colour  of  his  hair,  as  because  it  was  wise  to 
keep  clear  of  him,  as  from  a  wolf.  Above  all  was  he 
dangerous  to  women  ;  their  virtue  had  no  worse  enemy. 
Those  who  did  not  yield  willingly  to  him  he  took  by 
force.  As  soon  as  it  was  known  that  he  was  back  on 
his  estate,  the  alarm  spread  from  neighbour  to  neigh- 
bour. "  The  beast  is  loose,"  they  would  say  ;  "  shut  up 
your  hens."  Well,  pretty  Matelina  Troadek  was  not 
shut  up  in  time,  for  the  ballad  relates  in  covert  lan- 
guage, that,  "although  only  a  simple  peasant  girl, 
she  has  given  birth  to  the  son  of  a  marquis."  A  sad 
honour,  alas !  for  which  her  parents  forced  her  to  pay 
dearly.  They  had  no  notion  of  working  their  arms  off 
in  order  to  feed  the  son  of  a  rich  man  ! 

It  was  the  season  of  the  Fire  Pardon  ;  all  the  boats 
would  soon  be  sailing  westward  to  Saint  Jean.  Loc- 
maria would  be  sure  to  go  to  this  festival — the  finest  in 
all  the  country.  "  Well,"  said  they,  "  Matelina  shall  go 
there  herself,  and  take  the  opportunity  of  publicly  pre- 
senting the  marquis  with  his  son."  .  .  . 

The  ballad  represents  the  poor  young  girl  as  refusing  ; 
praying,  is  not  her  shame  enough  without  this  scandal  ? 
And  then,  too,  she  is  haunted  by  terrible  fears — 

"  My  father,  my  mother,  if  you  love  me, 
You  will  not  send  me  to  the  Pardon  of  Saint  Jean  ! 
A  voice  in  my  heart  keeps  telling  me. 
That  if  I  go  upon  the  sea,  I  shall  be  drowned  ! " 


164  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

But  neither  father  nor  mother  show  any  pity,  and 
the  poor  child  is  forced  to  deck  herself  in  her  holiday 
attire.  As  she  puts  on  each  garment,  her  white  dress, 
her  yellow  satin  apron,  she  thinks  that  she  is  dressing 
herself  in  her  winding-sheet ;  and  as  she  sets  foot  in  the 
boat,  she  feels  that  it  is  to  her  death  she  is  going. 

"  Mat^lina  Troadek  said, 
As  the  barque  heeled  over  on  one  side, 
'  Tell  your  beads,  every  one  of  you. 
While  I  say  Vespers.' " 

And  the  ballad  goes  on  to  tell  us  that  she  had 
scarcely  finished  the  first  verse  when  the  catastrophe 
came.  Just  as  she  was  disappearing,  she  remembered 
that  Saint  Maturin,  her  patron,  was  master  of  the  wind 
and  the  water.  To  him,  therefore,  she  recommended 
her  child,  praying  the  good  saint  to  bear  him  safe  and 
sound  to  land.  And  we  are  told  that  her  prayer  was 
answered,  for  that  same  evening  a  child,  bound  to  a 
plank,  was  cast  ashore  on  the  beach  of  Traoun-Meriadek, 
a  child — 

"  Dressed  in  a  gown  of  white  satin 
That  showed  him  to  be  the  son  of  a  marquis." 

As  to  Matelina  herself,  when  they  found  her  body, 
she  was  lying  eighteen  fathoms  deep  beneath  the  water, 
with  a  branch  of  green  seaweed  in  her  hand. 

"  Why  a  branch  of  green  seaweed } "  we  always 
asked  Nonnik, 

"  As  her  palm  of  martyrdom,"  he  would  answer,  his 
eyes  raised  heavenward,  as  though  beholding  on  high 
the  pale,  sweet  phantom  of  the  dead  girl. 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  165 


CHAPTER,.  VI 

WELL,  these  dangerous  sea  pilgrimages  have  all 
but  ceased.  They  now  exist  only  in  two  or 
three  parishes,  of  which  Locquenole  is  one ;  one  can 
form  some  idea  of  the  great  processions  of  former  days 
from  seeing  its  pilgrims  set  sail. 

Through  the  wood  we  have  passed  downward  to 
the  end  of  the  estuary,  where  the  little  port  nestles 
beneath  its  green  canopy.  Locquenole  lies  upon  the 
Leon  shore ;  but  stern  Leon  dies  here,  giving  place  to 
the  softness  and  langour  of  Tregor.  The  difference  is 
as  noticeable  in  the  race  as  in  the  soil.  One  is  im- 
mediately conscious  of  a  gayer  and  more  poetic  nature. 

The  boats  are  just  casting  off  as  we  arrive.  Their 
many-coloured  flags  flutter  in  the  breeze  like  a  cloud 
of  captive  butterflies.  The  seats  are  crowded  with 
girls  and  young  men,  and  from  end  to  end  of  each 
boat  the  fringes  of  shawls  are  hanging  almost  to  the 
water.  Merrily  from  boat  to  boat  they  call  one  to 
another — 

"  Take  care,  Anais,  you  will  spoil  your  fringe  ! " 

And  laughter  comes  bubbling  forth,  to  fly  gaily 
away.  There  seems  good  reason  for  the  proverb  that 
speaks  of  the  happy  temper  of  the  girls  of  Locquenole. 
They  go  to  the  Pardon  as  though  it  were  some  merry- 
making made  up  of  sea  and  love.     Some  of  them  try 


166  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

merrily  to  help  the  rowers,  the  sails  not  being  hoisted 
till  they  reach  the  open  sea.  As  the  last  party  goes  on 
board,  the  man  at  the  barrier  calls  to  us — 

"  Are  not  you  going  too  ?  " 

And  when  we  reply  that  we  prefer  to  go  by  road — 
"  So  much  the  worse,"  says  he  ;  "  if  you  were  to  go  with 
the  young  ladies  of  my  parish,  you  would  be  doubly 
blessed."  And  the  young  ladies  call  out  in  feigned  dis- 
pleasure, while  jokes  come  raining  down,  and  pretty 
shouts  of  laughter.  Now,  barque  after  barque,  the  little 
flotilla  enters  the  veined  region  of  the  currents.  Then 
suddenly  there  is  a  solemn  silence ;  only  the  grinding 
of  pulleys,  the  crackling  of  spreading  sails.  The  fun  is 
over,  the  real  business  of  the  crossing  about  to  begin. 
In  the  centre  of  the  bay  crouches  the  rigid  form  of  the 
stone  of  the  Bull,  spreading  his  black  shadow  over  the 
glistening  waters.  There  are  as  many  sad  memories 
connected  with  this  rock  as  there  are  black  cormorants 
perched  upon  it.  The  sight  is  a  stern  reminder,  sufficient 
to  sober  the  most  thoughtless.  Sailors  begin  to  look  to 
the  sheets,  and  the  girls,  but  a  moment  ago  so  full  of 
nonsense,  have  nothing  on  their  lips  now,  save  canticles. 
The  rhythm  of  their  voices  keeps  time  with  the  move- 
ment of  the  boats,  and  the  sound  spreads  out  behind 
them,  widening  with  the  eddy  of  their  wake. 

We  have  returned  by  the  other  bank  to  the  heights 
of  Kerselina,  but  still  we  hear  the  echo  of  their  distant 
singing,  answered  from  all  the  country  round  by  the 
scattered  tinkling  of  the  Angelus,  falling  in  a  shower  of 
clear,  distinct  sounds  through  the  morning  air.  For  a 
distance  of  three  leagues  there  is  not  a  church  tower 
but  feels  called  upon  to  celebrate  the  Pardon  of  Saint 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  167 

Jean-du-Doigt,  just  as  though  it  were  its  own  feast. 
Thus  was  it  that  the  carillons  of  former  days  rang  out  at 
the  passing  of  thelwonderfuVsoldier.  And  what  could  be 
sweeter  than  this  airy  music,  floating  over  the  sun-bathed 
country  ?  The  pilgrims  recognize  each  different  chime, 
and  understand  its  meaning.  "  This  way  !  "  says  one. 
"  Make  haste !  "  exclaims  another.  "  It  is  time  the  young 
men  were  at  Saint  Jean,"  mutters  a  third ;  and  little  by 
little,  from  the  depths  of  the  country,  a  heavy  murmuring 
begins  to  arise,  a  sound  of  footsteps  and  prayers.  There 
is  a  universal  upheaval,  and  all  the  country  begins  to 
move  in  one  direction,  attracted  as  though  by  a  magnet 
Even  we  give  way  to  the  feeling,  in  spite  of  ourselves 
and  start  in  the  great  heat  much  earlier  than  we  in- 
tended. It  is  not  safe  to  breathe  the  contagion  of  these 
religious  fevers. 

The  driver  of  our  carriage  is  a  man  from  Plouvorn, 
a  Leonard,  very  respectable  and  prosaic.  But  the  very 
idea  that  he  is  on  his  way  to  Traoun  is  enough  to 
awaken  within  him  a  strange,  artless  feeling  of  ten- 
derness. 

"  I  have  not  seen  Saint  Jean  since  the  year  I  drew 
my  lot,"  says  he,  in  Breton.  "  There  were  thirteen  of 
us  conscripts,  who  made  a  vow  that  we  would  go  there 
barefoot  if  we  drew  a  good  number ;  and  there  were 
thirteen  of  us  when  we  set  out.  We  walked  all  night 
without  speaking  a  single  word,  or  even  turning  our 
heads.  The  floating  meadow-mists  went  before  us,  as 
though  to  show  us  the  way.  I  never  felt  so  glad  to  be 
alive  as  during  that  night.  No  one  was  tired,  for  the 
earth  and  sky  gave  forth  a  sweet  scent  that  refreshed 
our  limbs  like  an  unguent."  .  .  . 


168  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

And  he  half  closed  his  eyes,  that  he  might  breathe 
once  more  the  mystical  odour  of  the  night  that  was 
the  one  poem  of  his  life.  .  .  . 

And  now  the  rich  verdure  that  festoons  both  sides 
of  the  valley  of  Morlaix  is  sinking  away  behind  us,  while 
opposite,  toward  the  north,  the  long  seaboard  plains  of 
Tregor  stretch  their  sober  lines.  One  last,  deep  chasm 
lies  between  us  and  them,  the  strangely  silent,  savage 
gorge  of  the  Dourdu.  The  sea  we  scarcely  thought  to 
have  seen  again  before  reaching  the  coast,  here  makes 
a  sudden  and  most  unexpected  reappearance.  For  this 
is  indeed  the  sea,  this  beautiful  clear  green  water  that 
we  cross,  as  it  flows  between  banks  flowery  with 
broom,  or  bordered  by  alders,  like  some  siren  who  has 
lost  herself  among  the  hills  and  dales.  The  descent 
into  the  apex  of  this  funnel-like  valley  is  so  sudden, 
that  it  is  not  surprising  it  has  been  the  cause  of  many 
fatal  accidents,  commemorated  by  crosses,  here  and 
there,  as  in  a  Street  of  Tombs,  and  by  a  marble  slab 
built  into  a  gable  of  the  inn. 

For  there  is  an  inn  on  the  borders  of  this  region,  at 
whose  door  our  carriage  stops  of  its  own  accord.  How 
many  times  have  we  not  been  there  in  this  summer  of 
1898!  It  bears  as  its  sign,  "A  la  bonne  Rencontre," 
and  in  future  will  be  known  as  one  of  the  spots  sacred 
in  the  annals  of  Breton  literature.  There  the  Armorican 
drama  was  one  day  reborn  ;  there  in  the  old  grey  house, 
serving  both  as  inn  and  village  bakehouse,  Thomas 
Park,  commonly  called  Parkik,  conceived  the  bold  pro- 
ject of  restoring  our  mystery  plays,  with  all  their  ancient 
glory.  There  he  gathered  around  him  the  first  willing 
companions  of  his  toilsome  undertaking.     There,  during 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  169 

the  leisure  hours  of  several  winters,  he  fed  them  with 
his  teaching  and  roused  them  by  his  enthusiasm,  and 
from  thence  one  day  he  will  assuredly  lead  them  forth 
to  the  conquest  of  souls.  .  .  . 

He  had  been  expecting  us  all  the  morning,  and 
ran  out  in  his  working  clothes,  face  and  hands  white 
with  flour.  He  had  just  finished  a  baking,  and  the  hot 
loaves  were  steaming  on  the  floor  of  beaten  earth, 
while  over  them  leant  the  peasant  women,  each  trying 
to  identify  her  own,  by  the  special  mark  she  had  put 
upon  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  am  rather  late  in  starting  for  Saint 
Jean,"  said  ^Parkik.  However,  when  we  offered  to 
take  him  with  us  in  our  carriage,  he  refused  gently, 
glancing  towards  a  very  young  girl,  busy  picking  out 
her  loaf ;  and  added,  with  a  hesitating,  bashful  manner — 
"  You  see,  I  am  already  engaged." 

So  evidently  there  is  some  secret  understanding 
between  them.,  is  there .''  Well,  if  he  does  not  confide 
in  us,  no  doubt  it  is  because  he  is  waiting  for  the  Pardon 
of  Saint  Jean  to  consecrate  his  betrothal,  according  to 
ancient  custom.  For,  to  make  an  engagement  binding, 
the  couple  must  have  drunk  together  from  the  sacred 
fountains,  and  have  put  their  "  Herbe  d'Amour"  to 
the  test  of  the  Tantad.  The  nearer  we  approach 
Plougaznou,  the  more  of  these  rustic  couples  do  we  come 
across,  walking  side  by  side,  In  the  scanty  shadow  of  the 
high  banks,  topped  by  great  gilded  boughs  of  gorse. 
As  is  usual  under  such  circumstances,  the  man  carries 
the  girl's  umbrella,  point  upward,  while,  in  a  dream, 
she  walks  along,  smiling  vaguely,  with  lowered  eyelids. 
It  would  be  vain  to  ask  what  they  are  talking  about. 


170  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

for  there  is  no  word  audible.  In  Breton  love  language — 
"  they  speak  in  their  hearts  alone." 

Indeed,  the  greater  number  of  the  pilgrims  whom 
we  overtake  on  the  road,  on  foot  or  in  char-a-bancs,  are 
silent.  The  extreme  heat  of  the  day  has  no  doubt 
something  to  do  with  this.  Over  the  burning  ground 
lies  an  atmosphere  of  fire,  and  even  the  dust  of  the  road 
glitters  like  live  coals.  The  black  seed-pods'of  the  broom 
burst  with  little  fiery  cracklings,  and  as  we  near  the 
coast  the  country  becomes  quite  bare,  like  a  great 
naked  steppe.  Not  a  patch  of  green  on  which  to  rest 
the  eyes,  nothing  to  give  relief  from  the  glare.  Here 
and  there  at  rare  intervals  a  thin  group  of  pines,  bearing 
at  the  end  of  their  ruddy  branches,  plumes,  unsubstantial 
as  smoke,'  that  seem  ready  to  take  wing  and  fly  away. 
The  golden  tints  of  the  moorland  are  all  a-glitter,  and 
brown  pools  shine  like  molten  copper.  It  is  a  wild 
orgy  of  light.  Very  few  houses  in  this  district,  only 
one  or  two  old  stone  cottages,  and  mud  hovels  that  add 
but  another  note  to  the  universal  burning,  for  it  is  the 
custom  to  repaint  them  in  honour  of  the  Tantad.  All 
the  preceding  week,  whitewashers'  carts  have  been 
about  the  neighbourhood,  and  lime  has  flowed  plenti- 
fully from  brimming  buckets.  It  has  covered  the  walls, 
the  chimneys,  even  the  slates  and  thatching  of  the  roofs, 
and  the  newly  dressed  cottages  glitter  hard  and  white. 

Happily  for  the  pilgrims  there  are  ancient  chapels 
here  and  there,  offering  delightful  shade,  damp  and  cool. 
All  the  rest  of  the  year  they  lie  closed  like  tombs,  but 
during  the  pilgrimage  season  are  left  open  night  and 
day.  Crypts  they  are  in  the  half-light,  the  moss  of 
ages  creeping  along  their  green  walls,  and  water  plants 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  171 

trembling  in  the  old  stone  binitiers.  We  entered  one 
of  these  chapels  in  passing-.  ...  It  had  been  built 
on  the  ruins  of  a  Templar's  church,  near  the  village  of 
Kermouster.  When  at  last  our  eyes  grew  accustomed 
to  the  faint  light  that  fell  from  the  loop-hole  windows, 
we  saw  tall,  half-naked  men,  with  their  trousers  turned 
half  up  their  legs,  sleeping  on  the  flag-stones,  their  heads 
pillowed  on  their  folded  vests.  By  their  thin  bony  faces, 
their  aquiline,  bird-like  noses,  and  the  strange  cap  they 
wear,  it  is  easy  to  recognize  them  as  "  Paganiz" — rude 
fisher-folk  from  Guisseny  or  Aber-vrac'h,  descendants 
of  the  old  wreckers.  They  must  have  started  yesterday, 
these  men,  and  have  travelled  all  night,  guided  by  the 
stars,  from  the  farthest  bounds  of  Leon.  But  indeed, 
to  these  beach-wanderers,  such  a  journey  is  mere  child's 
play.  Besides,  what  would  they  not  go  through  for  the 
sake  of  Saint  Jean  !  They  will  tell  you  that  their  fathers 
used  to  pray  after  this  manner — 

"Jean  of  Plougaznou,  by  the  power  of  thy  finger 
sharpen  our  eyes.  Give  us  the  sight  of  cormorants, 
to  watch  through  the  shadows  of  sea  and  night,  so  that 
from  afar  we  may  notice  the  coming  of  a  wreck,  and 
from  further  still  the  approach  of  the  'Maltotier.'" 


172  THE   LAND  OF  PARDONS 


CHAPTER  VII 

A  CROSS-ROAD,  where  the  routes  break  away  from 
each  other,  one  proceeding  straight  to  Plougaznou, 
whose  little  town  and  clock-tower  stand  out  against  the 
sky  on  the  top  of  a  great  bare  ridge,  behind  which  might 
lie  the  end  of  all  things,  the  yawning  gulf  of  immensity. 

As  to  the  other  road,  no  one  can  doubt  for  a  moment 
as  to  its  destination.  At  its  point  of  starting  is  a  calvary, 
serving  also  the  purpose  of  a  sign-post.  To  the  upright 
of  this  cross  has  been  nailed  an  arm  taken  from  some 
worn-out  crucifix,  and  its  meaning  is  so  unmistakable 
that  the  blind  themselves  can  read  it  as  plainly  as  those 
who  can  see. 

There  are  legions  of  the  blind  at  this  fete  of  Light- 
Many  come  to  make  money  by  the  exhibition  of  their 
sightless  eyes,  and  possibly,  some  among  them  are  not 
so  hopelessly  afflicted  as  they  seem.  Begging,  which 
for  so  many  ages  was  a  kind  of  priesthood  in  Brittany, 
is  gradually  becoming  a  trade,  and  is  not  without  its 
rogues.  But,  besides  these  people,  there  are  numbers 
who  are  drawn  thither  by  the  wonderful  curative  reputa- 
tion of  the  Tantad.  Why  should  not  the  sacred  fire 
once  again  work  the  miracle  it  has  so  often  performed  in 
the  past  ?  Such  is  the  thought  read  on  more  than  one 
eager  face,  whose  eyes  are  pathetically  closed.  Some 
are  crying  aloud  with  a  strange  intense  fervour,  like  this 


SAINT   JLAX  UL-DUIGX 


THE    PARDON   OF   FIRE  173 

Master  Sabotier  from  the  Bois  de  la  Nult,  whom  we 
come  across  just  as  prudence  and  the  quaintness  of  the 
scene  force  us  to  quit  our  carriage,  and,  on  foot  among 
the  crowd,  make  our  way  down  the  exquisite  wild  slope 
to  Traoun-Meriadek. 

Strong  and  tall  as  the  beech  trees  of  his  native 
forest,  the  old  man  walks  with  an  impatient,  jerky  stride, 
leaning  one  hand  on  the  shoulder  of  a  young  girl,  above 
whom  he  towers  by  more  than  a  head.  The  sight  of 
them  calls  up  classic  memories.  Is  it  not  a  Breton 
CEdipus,  led  by  some  rustic  Antigone  ?  Now  and  again 
they  exchange  a  brief  word  or  two,  always  the  same. 

CEdipus  asks,  in  an  eager  voice — 

"  Do  you  begin  to  see  it  ?  " 

And  Antigone,  shading  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  makes 
answer — 

"  No,  father,  not  yet !  " 

Suddenly  she  stops,  and  exclaims — 

"  Ah,  there  it  is  ! " 

"  It "  is  the  gilt  cock  on  the  summit  of  the  spire  of 
Saint  Jean,  that  has  just  made  its  appearance,  shining  in 
the  sun  between  two  waves  of  verdure  in  the  bend  of  tl,  ; 
valley.  The  blind  man  has  gone  down  upon  his  knees 
with  so  sudden  a  movement  that  for  a  moment  we  think 
he  has  fallen.  Laying  his  open  palms  flat  on  the  dusty 
road,  he  cries — 

"Land  of  Saint  Jean,  I  embrace  thee.  .  .  .  My 
eyes  !  give  me  back  my  eyes  !  Send  me  not  away 
again  without  having  beheld  thee  !  " 

I  hear  some  one  murmuring,  "  Ah,  I  have  seen  him 
before.  He  came  last  year.  ...  It  is  the  man  who  was 
blinded  by  lightning."  .  .  . 


174  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

Aye,  and  he  will  come  again  next  year,  and  every 
year,  so  long  as  he  has  strength  to  make  the  journey. 
His  leo-s  will  give  way  sooner  than  his  patience.  Like  all 
his  fatalistic  race,  his  resignation  is  founded  on  infinite 
hope.  .  .  .  And  think  of  the  marvellous  picture  which 
he  and  his  fellows  must  bear  in  their  hearts  of  this 
"  Land  of  Saint  Jean,"  this  realm  of  Fire  and  Light, 
toward  which  they  are  led  by  all  the  passion  of  their 
desire.  There,  indeed,  she  lies,  spreading  her  semicircle 
of  charms  at  our  feet ;  after  the  broad,  hot  plains 
through  which  we  have  come,  what  an  oasis !  how 
fresh,  how  smiling,  how  restful !  A  horseshoe  of  rocky 
hills,  ending  in  promontories,  encircles  a  deep  valley, 
exquisitely  wooded.  All  the  greens  mingle  their  tints 
together,  from  the  lightest  and  most  ethereal  to  the 
richest  and  darkest.  In  the  distance  appears  the  sea, 
lying  high  up  against  the  sky,  from  which  it  would 
be  indistinguishable,  save  for  the  sparkle  of  its  blue 
waters. 

Between  the  two  points  of  Plougaznou  and  Guimaec 
the  valley  lies  as  though  in  an  immense  goblet,  wrought 
\  ith  marvellous  skill,  and  encrusted  with  jems,  the 
amethyst  of  the  heath,  the  topaz  of  the  gorse.  .  .  . 

One  of  the  special  charms  of  Traoun-Meriadek  is 
this  union  of  sylvan  grace  with  ocean  splendour.  But 
still  more  striking,  especially  on  the  burning  threshold 
of  summer,  is  the  lavish  abundance  of  living  water.  You 
feel  it  in  the  very  air  long  before  you  see  it.  The  springs 
are  bubbling  everywhere,  falling  in  pearly  drops,  flowing 
in  silent  streams.  It  seems  only  necessary  to  press  the 
ground  with  the  foot  to  bring  the  water  flowing  from 
every  pore.     Ah,  indeed,  we  are  here  in  the  region  of 


THE   FOUNTAIN    OF   SAINT    JEAN 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  175 

the  Naiads,  and  we  pass  along  bathed,  enfolded  by  their 
damp,  cool  breath.  At  every  step  a  spring  arises,  here 
drowsing  motionless  beneath  a  coverlet  of  duckweed, 
there  feeding  a  tufted  cress-bed,  in  the  midst  of  which 
an  ancient  Gallo-Roman  cross  moulders  away.  Here 
again  is  one  that,  escaping  slyly  from  the  runnel  by 
the  roadside,  meanders  over  the  path,  wearing  and 
destroying  it,  to  the  despair  of  the  roadmaker.  A 
fourth  .  .  .  but  it  would  be  a  mere  absurdity  to  attempt 
to  describe  them  all.  There  is  a  local  saying  that 
declares  there  are  more  fountains  at  Saint  Jean-du- 
Doigt  than  souls  in  paradise  ! 

Once  upon  a  time  all  these  Naiads  had  their  temples, 
each  little  fountain  its  shrine  of  sculptured  stone,  and 
still  there  are  remains  of  some  of  them.  One  especially 
is  very  beautiful.  This  fountain  rises  in  the  churchyard, 
and  for  this  reason  no  doubt  is  held  in  especial  honour. 
So  a  monument  worthy  of  its  particular  sanctity  has 
been  erected  over  it,  and  it  is  no  small  surprise  to  the 
traveller  to  find  one  of  the  most  exquisite  specimens  of 
Renaissance  art  hidden  away  in  this  little  village  grave- 
yard in  the  depths  of  a  forgotten  valley.  The  unknown 
sculptor,  who  could  bring  this  graceful,  living  metal 
flower  from  out  its  rough  bronze  covering,  must  have 
been  a  master  of  his  art.  Three  cups  rise  one  above 
another  holding  the  water,  that  is  ever  overflowing  and 
falling.  In  the  neighbourhood  it  is  called  Feunteun- 
Ar-Bis,  the  Fountain  of  the  Finger,  or  sometimes,  The 
Mother  Fountain,  A  Vamm-Vommen.  An  old  pilgrim 
to  whom  I  talked  on  the  way  down  told  me  the  following 
legend  about  it : — 

"  When  the  young   soldier,  still   bearing   the   relic 


176  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

beneath  his  skin,  found  himself  in  his  native  parish,  he 
hastened  to  wash  at  this  fountain,  so  that  he  might  rid 
his  face  and  hands  of  the  Norman  dust  before  assisting 
at  the  Mass.  No  sooner,  however,  had  he  plunged  his 
arms  in  the  basin  than  the  water  began  to  boil,  as 
though  heated  by  a  great  fire.  It  was  the  power  of  the 
Holy  Finger  passing  through  it !  Ever  since  then  it 
has  been  blessed  ;  but  to  make  assurance  doubly  sure, 
every  year,  after  the  Tantad,  the  clergy  place  the 
relic  in  the  fountain,  and  they  say  that  the  water  steams 
as  though  a  red-hot  iron  touched  it !  But  its  healing 
property  is  really  everlasting  ;  no  sickness  is  there  which 
it  will  not  cure,  and  so  every  one  begins  and  ends  the 
Pardon  at  the  fountain.  Look  what  a  crowd  there  is 
already  around  the  basin  !  " 

The  village  is  still  half  hidden  by  trees  ;  but  through 
a  gap  we  can  see  a  corner  of  the  churchyard,  and  the 
glitter  of  falling  water  sparkles  above  a  swarm  of  human 
beings,  who  are  only  to  be  distinguished  from  one 
another  by  their  white  caps,  black  hats,  and  numberless 
arms  stretched  out  in  invocation.  .  .  .  The  damp  scent 
of  moss  grows  stronger,  more  penetrating,  mingled 
with  a  faint,  intoxicating  perfume  of  gorse,  while  now 
and  then  a  puff  of  sea-breeze  tells  of  the  adjacent  shore 

And  then,  too,  there  are  other  scents  less  romantic 
given  off  from  the  outdoor  kitchens  ;  for  in  the  little 
meadows  that  border  the  road  at  the  foot  of  the  slope, 
the  innkeepers  from  Morlaix  and  Lanmeur  have  built 
primitive  hearths  from  the  round  stones  of  the  beach, 
and  are  kneading  dough,  peeling  potatoes,  tossing  crepes, 
roasting  sausages.  .  .  .  Bundles  of  wood  hold  up  the 
saucepans,  and  one  old  witch,  with  smoke-dried  features, 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  177 

crouching  beside  a  pot  she  is  stirring,  cries  to  us  as  we 
pass,  "  Coffee,  my  good  people,  excellent  coffee  !  Only 
two  sous  a  cup ! " 

Then,  following  the  bivouac  fires,  come  booths,  a 
whole  street  of  them,  where,  beneath  sunburnt  awnings, 
glass  beads  and  sparkling  tinsel  glitter.  Of  the  actual 
village  houses  there  is  no  trace.  Beyond  all  the  finery, 
however,  rises  a  porch,  a  magnificent  triumphal  arch, 
stately,  solitary  as  a  ruin,  the  last  grand  vestige,  it  is  said, 
of  some  forgotten  civilization.  Statues  are  decaying  in 
its  niches,  and  between  the  disjointed  stones  grow  the 
vigorous  creeping  plants  that  love  such  old  walls  ;  while 
two  beggars,  dilapidated  and  ragged  as  the  stonework 
against  which  they  lean,  look  like  prophets  lamenting 
over  fallen  Nineveh.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  they  are 
singing  the  praises  of  Sant  lann  Bad^zour,  for  this  is 
the  entrance  to  the  churchyard,  and  here  we  are  at 
Saint  Jean  ! 


178  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 


CHAPTER  YIII 

NOW,  though  the  little  mystic  town  seems  hidden 
away  well  enough  in  its  circle  of  hills  and  its 
thick  covering  of  foliage,  there  will  come  ever  and  anon 
some  traveller  in  search  of  the  unknown — some  tourist 
looking  for  cheap  odds-and-ends.  So  there  is  an  inn 
adorned  by  the  name  of  a  hotel,  one  of  the  pleasantest 
conceivable !  And  the  most  delightful  thing  about  it, 
especially  on  the  day  of  the  Pardon,  is  its  position, 
exactly  opposite  the  church,  to  which  it  really  forms  a 
kind  of  secular  outbuilding.  Besides  this,  it  has  the 
loveliest  views,  both  up  the  valley  and  down  towards  the 
sea.  From  my  room,  on  the  first  floor,  I  can  look 
straight  through  the  arch  and  the  porch  into  the  blue 
dusk  of  the  nave,  a-glitter  with  lighted  candles  ;  can 
watch  the  movements  of  the  pilgrims  in  the  graveyard  as 
they  press  toward  the  sacred  fountain  ;  can  follow  the  soft 
curves  of  the  meadows  around  the  village,  right  away  to 
the  rocky  headland  that  shelters  Saint  Jean  from  the  west. 

A  mountain  path  leads  up  to  this  steep  cliff,  winding 
in  and  out  among  dwarf  oaks,  tufts  of  purple  heather, 
and  sumptuous,  flaming  banks  of  gorse. 

"  Down  there,"  says  my  hostess  ;  "  down  there  the 
procession  from  Plougaznou  will  come,  with  the  first 
sound  of  the  vesper  bell.  You  will  find  it  something 
well  worth  looking  at." 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  179 

Just  then  the  bells  did  break  out,  and  as  though  it 
had  only  been  waiting  for  the  signal,  a  great  scarlet 
banner,  spangled  with  gold,  rose  little  by  little  away  on 
the  height,  then  all  at  once  filled,  like  the  purple  sail  of 
some  fabled  galley.  Behind,  rose  a  second,  a  third,  and 
still  others,  their  violet  velvet  or  plush,  their  emerald 
brocade,  moving  in  time  to  the  marching.  When  the 
procession  began  to  descend  the  sunny  slope,  the  effect 
of  all  these  banners,  drawn  up  into  a  marvellous  scale 
of  colours,  was  really  very  curious,  enriched  as  it  was  by 
the  glory  of  the  sunshine.  Young  white-robed  girls, 
maidens  of  Tregor,  in  delicate  starched  caps,  fine  and 
transparent,  crowded  round  the  foot  of  each  staff,  closely 
following  the  bearer,  holding — I  might  say  clutching — 
the  cords,  for  at  the  more  exposed  points  of  the  descent 
they  were  almost  obliged  to  hang  on  to  keep  the  heavy 
banner  upright,  and  allow  the  bearer  to  recover  his 
threatened  equilibrium.  They  made  me  think  of  a 
certain  fairy  ship,  about  which  I  have  heard  some  old 
sea-song,  whose  rigging  was  composed  of  silver  cords, 
and  the  crew  of  young  girls. 

And  now  the  watchers,  posted  in  the  galleries  of 
the  high  clock-tower,  come  running,  crying  excitedly — 

"  Plougaznou !  Plougaznou  ! " 

A  movement  can  be  seen  among  the  crowd  in  the 
church.  It  is  the  procession  of  Saint  Jean  making  its 
way  out,  with  unfurled  banners.  Custom  has  long 
settled  that  the  two  processions  should  meet  at  the 
boundary  between  the  two  parishes.  The  precise  spot  is 
an  old  bridge  of  scattered  boulders  at  the  end  of  the 
village,  just  were  the  river  forms  a  natural  boundary. 
From  each  side  the  crosses  approach,  bowing  to  one 


180  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

another,  giving  the  kiss  of  peace.  Then  the  banners 
follow  the  example  of  the  crosses,  bending  one  towards 
another,  so  that  the  sparkling  representations  of  the 
saints  upon  them  touch.  When  the  turn  comes  for  the 
great  banner  of  Saint  Jean  to  make  its  reverence,  there 
is  a  sudden  movement  of  curiosity  and  anxiety  among 
the  crowd,  for  this  huge  piece  of  embroidery  is  by  no 
means  easy  to  manipulate,  masterpiece  that  it  is  of 
generations  of  workers  in  gold  thread.  It  represents 
the  Baptism  of  Our  Saviour,  and  is  celebrated  all  over 
Brittany,  not  only  on  account  of  its  beauty,  but  for 
its  weight.  It  is  therefore  reckoned  as  a  species  of 
Palladium.  Its  cross  beam  is  as  large  as  a  yard,  and 
its  pole  thick  as  a  mast.  None  but  the  very  strongest 
can  ever  hope  to  bear  it,  and  no  honour  is  more  coveted 
throughout  all  this  portion  of  Tregor.  In  past  ages  it 
was  eagerly  competed  for,  not  a  commune  or  hamlet 
but  sent  its  champion  ;  for  the  victor  was  as  renowned 
as  the  winner  of  the  Olympian  games  among  the  Greeks. 
He  became  the  pride  of  his  fellow-countrymen  ;  they 
spoke  of  him  as  more  than  mortal,  as  a  hero,  and  the 
poets  of  the  countryside  made  songs  in  his  praise. 

To-day,  outsiders  have  ceased  to  take  part  in  the 
sacred  sport  ;  but  the  young  men  of  Saint  Jean  still 
compete,  as  did  their  fathers.  For  four  or  five  months 
before  the  Pardon  they  gather  every  Sunday  on  the 
threshing-floor  of  some  farm  to  practise  the  "  Epreuve 
de  la  Perche  !  "  This  pole  is  very  long,  shod  with  iron 
at  its  thicker  end,  and  its  weight  is  equal  to  that  of  the 
banner.  The  trial  consists  in  raising  it  from  the  ground 
by  its  thin  end,  holding  it  straight  aloft,  and  then  walk- 
ing a  certain  number  of  times  round  the  yard,  over  the 


THE  PARDON  OF  FIRE  181 

damp  mess  and  dry  brushwood  with  which  the  ground 
is  covered.  It  is  not  uncommon  for  people  to  rupture 
some  internal  organ  at  these  exercises. 

"You  see,"  remarked  a  man,  against  whom  I  was 
squeezed  ;  "  you  see,  there  is  always  the  fear  of  a  man 
being  killed  on  this  bridge  when  the  great  banner  is 
lowered.  .  .  .  One  year  I  saw  the  bearer  struck  stiff ;  he 
broke  a  blood-vessel  in  his  chest.  There  was  not  even 
time  for  the  rector  to  give  him  the  sacrament.     But  he 

had  the  funeral  of  a  prince,  and  on  his  grave-stone " 

A  great  murmur  of  admiration  drowned  the  voice  of 
my  companion.  Eyes  shone,  faces  brightened,  people 
dug  with  their  elbows,  and  interjections  passed  from  lip 
to  lip.  "  Ha !  that  little  Landouar,  what  a  way  he 
has  !"..."  That's  what  I  call  a  bow  !  Not  a  wrinkle 
on  his  face  !"..."  Nor  a  tremble  of  the  pole !  "  .  .  . 

The  hymn  that  is  being  sung,  and  the  clashing  of 
the  bells,  no  doubt  prevent  these  flattering  remarks  from 
reaching  the  ears  of  "that  little  Landouar."  But  in 
any  case  he  would  not  hear  them.  He  is  entirely 
engrossed  by  his  work,  his  mind  tense  as  his  muscles, 
his  fingers  bent  and  stiff  like  yellow  gorse-roots,  his  bull 
neck  half  sunk  between  his  sinewy,  thick-set  shoulders, 
his  gaze  fixed,  hypnotized  by  the  great  piece  of  floating 
silk  that  spreads  above  him  like  a  glory,  and  for  one 
never-to-be-forgotten  moment  makes  him  positively 
drunk  with  triumph. 

But  he  is  not  at  the  end  of  his  task.  Behind,  by 
the  arch  of  the  graveyard,  other  processions  are  await- 
ing the  kiss  of  peace.  Here  come  the  men  of  Garlan, 
Lanmeur,  Loquirec.  All  the  parishes  between  the 
Morlaix  river  and  the  Pointe  d'Armorique  have  sent 


182  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

their  priests  and  crosses,  their  brightest  banners,  and 
most  bedizened  Suisses. 

It  is  an  indescribable  swarm  of  butterflies,  a  debauch, 
a  frenzy  of  colour.  Ah !  how  far  away  it  seems,  that 
everyday  Brittany  we  all  know  so  well,  the  dead  grey 
Brittany  of  the  verse-makers  and  writers  !  Here  every- 
thing is  glittering,  resplendent,  flaming.  The  fiery 
breath  seems  to  have  melted  sky  and  ocean  into  one, 
and  even  the  air  gives  forth  a  warm,  quickening  breath. 
The  scent  of  grass  and  fountains,  who  shall  describe ! 
Truly  a  God-like  prodigality  pervades  all  things,  and 
one  can  but  be  conscious  every  moment  of  the  mysteri- 
ous, fertilizing,  life-giving  powers  of  Nature.  And  now 
the  moment  is  approaching  when  the  great  Sun,  before 
commencing  his  descent,  casts  all  the  vehemence  of  his 
broad  rays  on  the  hillside  that  has  ever  been  devoted  to 
his  worship. 

It  rises,  this  hill,  on  the  east  of  the  village  ;  indeed, 
the  last  houses  clamber  up  its  sides.  A  road  between 
two  high  banks  leads  straight  up  to  it,  and  the  talus 
are  topped  by  oaks,  many  a  century  old,  whose  de- 
formed branches  give  them  a  resemblance  to  a  band  of 
monstrous  beggars.  The  ground  is  worn  away  under- 
foot as  though  it  were  the  dry  bed  of  a  torrent,  and  in 
fact  a  torrent  of  men  and  women  is  streaming  up  it, 
toward  the  height.  They  press  forward,  they  shoulder 
each  other  ;  each  wishes  to  be  the  first  to  reach  the  Tan- 
tad.  Halfway  up  I  came  across  the  blind  man  of  the 
Bois  de  la  Nuit,  but  his  daughter  is  no  longer  leading 
him  ;  it  is  he  who  is  dragging  her  forward.  He  climbs 
upward,  with  his  strange,  sleep-walker's  gait,  flinging 
himself  against  people,  stumbling  over  stones,  his  grand 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  183 

pathetic  head  rising  above  the  human  stream  like  that 
of  some  wild,  sightless  Titan. 

"  There,  there,  cousin,"  said  I,  in  the  speech  of  his 
district,  and  using  the  form  of  address  the  sabotier 
loves  ;  "why  are  you  in  such  a  hurry?  Do  you  know 
that  your  poor  daughter  is  quite  worn  out  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she  can  rest  when  she  gets  to  the  top,"  said 
he.    "  I  must  get  a  good  place  at  the  Tan  tad  !  " 

And  then,  in  his  pathetic  voice,  he  added,  "  It  was 
my  own  fault  I  was  not  cured  last  year  ;  I  ought  to  have 
gone  nearer  to  the  fire.  This  time  I  must  be  able  to 
touch  it,  to  feel  its  heat  in  the  very  depths  of  my 
eyeballs ! " 

And  excited  at  the  expectation,  or  rather  at  the 
certainty  of  the  coming  miracle,  he  hurled  himself  still 
more  violently  against  the  sacred  hillside,  longing  to 
reach  that  summit,  that  Breton  Horeb,  so  soon  to  be 
crowned  by  its  flaming  Bush ! 


184  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 


CHAPTER  IX 

THREE  tracks  meet  at  the  summit,  forming  one  of 
those  triangular  spots,  which,  hke  the  pagan 
Trivia,  pass  for  holy  ground  in  Brittany  !  The  remains 
of  old  paving  show  that  one  of  the  many  Roman  roads 
leading  from  Carhaix  to  the  sea  branched  off  at  this 
point.  Latin  and  Gaulish  divinities  must  have  frater- 
nized on  these  heights,  and  much  of  their  spirit  still 
lingers  in  the  light,  the  air,  the  smile  of  the  waves,  the 
fields  of  flowering  black  corn,  and  tall,  shivering  rye. 
Christianity  has  only  multiplied  the  symbols,  she  has 
never  been  able  to  destroy  the  worship.  Thus  the 
calvary,  that  has  been  planted  in  the  centre  of  the  space, 
has  stones  at  its  base  that  have  been  taken  from  the 
ancient  road,  stones  that  were  quarried  by  Roman 
soldiers.  And  beside  it  lies  the  old  basin  of  a  fountain. 
Yes,  of  another  fountain,  where  the  original  divo7ine 
still  officiates  over  extremely  unorthodox  ceremonies, 
under  the  placid  eyes  of  a  much-begarlanded  figure  of 
Saint  John.  But  the  most  extraordinary  survival  of  the 
old  human  cult  is  the  pyramid  of  the  Tantad  itself! 
It  rises  in  an  enormous  stack,  like  the  pyre  of  some 
Homeric  chief,  dominating  the  whole  countryside,  and 
quite  overwhelming  the  calvary  with  its  shadow.  Every 
"Fire"  in  the  commune  has  contributed  its  branch  of 
gorse  towards  the   great  pile.    All  day  yesterday  men 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  185 

stacked  and  built  it,  and  in  the  evening  the  women 
arrived  to  perfect  the  work.  They  came  in  a  band,  to 
hang  it  with  ribbons  and  green  wreaths,  to  dress  it  with 
roses  and  poppies,  lending  an  air  of  smiling  beauty  to 
its  heavy,  prickly  form.  And  then,  when  all  was  finished, 
they  hung  across  the  valley  the  rope  that  from  time 
immemorial  has  united  the  Tantad  with  the  church 
steeple.  If  you  inquire  as  to  the  use  of  this  rope,  the 
natives  will  give  you  the  somewhat  Sibylline  answer — 
"  It  is  the  way  by  which  the  Dragon  comes." 

At  the  time  when  Cambry  wrote,  Saint  Jean,  like 
those  other  places  devoted  to  \.\\Q.fcte  of  the  solstice,  did 
not  light  its  Tantad  till  after  nightfall.  In  fact,  the 
ceremony  was  postponed  till  it  was  perfectly  dark. 
Then  suddenly,  at  the  call  of  the  Veni  Creator,  sung  by 
the  priests,  an  archangel,  glittering  with  flames  and  fire- 
works, pierced  the  shadows,  flew  straight  to  the  pile,  lit 
it,  and  after  having  fanned  it  with  his  wide-spread 
wings,  vanished  into  the  darkness.  Of  course,  there 
were  many  who  were  not  deceived  by  the  performance, 
but  the  strangeness  of  the  night  scene  left  a  distinct 
impression  on  the  most  sceptical  mind.  Besides,  think 
of  the  many  pilgrims  there  were  in  Brittany  in  the 
eighteenth  century  who  knew  nothing  whatever  of  fire- 
works !  Think  of  the  astonishment  and  fright  of  these 
poor  souls,  the  greater  number  of  whom  were  as 
ignorant  as  the  Russian  Moujik,  who  sees  the  Holy 
Ghost  come  down  in  a  shower  of  burning  tow  on  Easter 
Day.  They  had  no  idea  that  they  were  assisting  at  a 
religious  show ;  to  them  it  was  a  miraculous  phenomenon. 
And  of  course  they  were  more  likely  to  believe  in  the 
supernatural  origin  of  the   angel    when   the   darkness 


186  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

prevented  them  seeing  the  means  by  which  he  was 
brought  to  them.  What  frantic  dances  there  were  around 
the  Tantad !  and  afterward,  what  mad  homegoings  under 
the  warm  June  sky,  ghttering  with  stars !  Many  people 
never  went  home  at  all,  but  ran  about  the  shore  or  the 
country  all  night,  pursuing  each  other  with  wild  cries  of 
•'  lou  !  lou  !  "  and  flaming  brands  ! 

I  fancy  it  must  have  been  in  order  to  put  an  end  to 
these  very  disorderly  disturbances,  in  which  the  very 
women  themselves  took  pleasure,  that  the  authorities 
decided  to  hold  the  Tantad  in  daylight,  immediately 
after  Vespers.  And  this  soon  resulted  in  the  suppression 
of  the  angel.  He  no  longer  had  any  excuse.  The 
manner  of  his  appearance  became  nothing  but  a  vulgar 
trick,  liable  to  make  people  laugh,  for  even  the  most 
ignorant  could  not  fail  to  notice  the  strings  that  worked 
him.  So  they  hid  him  away  in  some  loft,  and  sub- 
stituted a  large  rocket,  and  it  is  this  that  the  people 
call  the  Dragon. 

"  If  you  are  looking  for  a  place  to  stand,  the  best 
are  on  this  side,"  says  a  well-known  voice  behind  me, 
and  there  are  Parkik  and  his  sweetheart.  They  have 
come  straight  to  the  Tantad  ;  in  fact,  I  am  afraid  they 
have  come  for  that  only.  And  it  is  the  same  with  large 
numbers  of  the  pilgrims,  for  there  are  crowds  who  have 
hastened  to  the  hill  without  ever  going  to  Vespers  at  all. 
It  is  not  only  the  road  that  is  full  of  people,  the  banks 
on  either  side,  the  fields  themselves,  are  darkening, 
furrow  after  furrow,  before  the  growing  flood  of  heavy 
black  hats,  relieved  by  the  women's  caps,  delicate  as 
foam.  The  neighbouring  farmers  are  trying  vainly  to 
protect  their  crops. 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  1ST 

"  Spare  the  corn,  at  all  events  ! "  cries  one  lamentable 
voice. 

"Bah!  Saint  John  will  soon  make  all  that  up  to 
you,"  comes  the  retort. 

And  you  must  remember  that  as  a  rule  these  wild 
corn-tramplers  hold  it  a  sacrilege  to  tread  on  one  ear. 
"  Be  respectful  towards  the  corn  that  makes  thy  bread  ; 
treat  it  as  though  it  were  thy  mother ! "  says  a  Breton 
proverb.  But  who  pays  any  attention  to  proverbs  on 
the  day  of  the  Tantad  ?  .  .  . 

"Besides,"  says  Parkik,  "these  peasants  are  not 
really  as  troubled  as  they  seem.  They  were  not  born 
this  morning.  When  they  sowed  in  the  autumn,  they 
must  have  known  that  the  corn  would  not  be  ripe  by 
now.  Therefore,  as  they  did  sow,  they  must  have  done 
it  to  please  themselves.  .  .  .  There  are  certain  losses 
that  turn  out  to  be  gains.  Barley,  wheat,  rye,  that  is 
all  Lod  an  Tan,  an  offering  to  the  Fire,  and  they  know 
well  enough  that  what  is  offered  to  the  fire,  the  fire 
pays  back  a  hundred-fold  !  " 

"Then  I  suppose  you  mean  that  these  farmers 
would  be  still  more  aggrieved  if  the  Tantad  worshippers 
gave  them  no  reason  for  complaint  ?  " 

"Just  so,  and  the  proof  is  in  the  fact  that  they  are 
among  the  most  prosperous  farmers  in  the  whole 
district." 

It  is  evident,  however,  that  some  of  them  arc  not 
trusting  to  the  fire  to  repay  them,  for  we  have  no  sooner 
hoisted  ourselves  up  on  to  the  terrace,  that  forms  a 
barrier  to  a  field  of  oats,  than  we  become  aware  of  an 
altercation  between  a  disagreeable-looking  woman  and 
some  pilgrims,  who  have  already  taken  their  stand. 


188  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

"  I  tell  you  that  these  places  are  a  sou  each ! "  she 
cries. 

"Just  as  if  it  was  a  church,"  says  some  one,  in  a 
bantering  voice. 

"  Quite  so  !  And  if  you  find  it  too  dear,  you  can  go 
somewhere  else." 

"  Never !  The  sight  of  the  Tantad  is  free  to  every 
one." 

"  Yes ;  but  my  field  is  my  own,  I  think." 

"  Oh,  we  shall  not  run  off  with  it ;  don't  fret  your- 
self!" 

But  in  the  end,  with  a  final  fling,  every  one  handed 
over  his  sou. 

"  I  hope  the  money  will  stick  to  your  hand ! "  said 
one. 

"  May  the  flames  of  the  Tantad  burn  you  for  ever  ! " 
exclaimed  another. 

I  glanced  at  Parkik.  He  shook  his  head,  and  sighed 
deeply,  looking  very  shocked. 

"  Ah,  these  new  ways  !  "  said  he.  "  The  people  have 
caught  the  money-fever  from  the  visitors  who  come  in 
the  season.  And  now  this  greedy  woman  is  trading  on 
her  bit  of  land  being  better  situated  than  other 
people's." 

And  in  truth,  we  are  splendidly  placed  for  seeing 
everything.  Only  a  few  yards  separate  us  from  the 
Tantad,  and  beyond  the  dense,  living  waves  that  surge 
at  its  base,  we  can  watch  the  wide  panorama  of  Traoun- 
Meriadek,  with  its  boundary  of  sea,  that  rich  diadem  of 
water  that  encloses  it  from  the  rocks  of  Primel,  to  the 
solitary  shores  of  Crec'h-Meur.  At  our  feet  lies  the 
road,  which  in  a  few  moments  will  be  filled  with  all  the 


THE   GREAT    BANNER   OF   SAINT   JEAN.      APPROACHING   THE   BONFIRE 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  189 

pomp  of  the  procession.  It  descends  toward  the  little 
town  by  a  gentle  slope  that  winds  along  the  base  of  the 
hillside.  Rows  of  ash  trees,  ranks  of  graceful,  delicate 
poplars  border  it,  and  make  it  into  a  green  avenue, 
shady  and  pleasant ;  and  along  this  road,  at  almost 
every  step,  the  noise  of  falling  water  sounds  on  the 
mossy  margin  of  some  pool.  The  numberless  eyes  of 
the  crowd  are  fixed,  now  on  the  sun,  now  on  the  steeple 
of  Saint  Jean.  A  breeze  of  impatience  sweeps  over  the 
sea  of  heads  in  long,  long  waves,  and  the  voices  gather 
into  a  murmuring  ocean-swell.  Even  Parkik's  timid 
fiancee  catches  something  of  the  prevailing  excitement, 
crushing  between  her  fingers  the  little  bouquet  of  "  Fire 
Flowers  "  she  has  just  bought  from  some  poor  seller. 

All  at  once  there  is  a  cry — a  loud  cry — springing 
from  a  thousand  lips — 

"  The  rocket !  " 

They  point  to  the  sky  just  above  the  church.  I 
have  barely  time  to  see  a  gleam  and  a  little  cloud  of 
falling  ash.  But  the  heart  of  the  multitude  is  quivering 
with  a  great  joy.  Down  below,  the  bells  have  begun 
ringing  anew,  and  the  whole  valley  is  echoing  like  a 
great  copper  boiler.  Now  the  banners  are  appearing. 
For  a  moment  they  flutter  in  the  graveyard,  then  begin 
to  mount  the  holy  path.  One  by  one  we  see  them 
glistening,  slow  and  majestic,  like  glorious  phantoms, 
beneath  the  trees.  The  last  is  still  in  the  depths  of 
the  valley  when  the  first  has  emerged  on  the  height. 
As  each  cross  rises,  shedding  its  gold  or  silver  glory 
out  among  the  glimmering  silk  and  velvet,  a  chorus 
greets  it  by  the  name  of  the  parish  from  which  it  has 
come.     The  procession  moves  to  the  sound  of  singing, 


190  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

and  guns  are  fired,  giving  the  scene  an  air  of  Eastern 
romance.  And  then  something  comes  along  that  calls 
up  a  vivid  picture  of  the  ancient  cult :  a  choir  of  young 
girls  appear,  preceded  by  a  white  ram,  led  by  a  child 
dressed  in  goatskins.  The  girls  hold  the  creature  by 
many-coloured  strands  fastened  to  its  neck  :  its  coat  has 
been  carefully  washed  and  combed,  and  from  its  horns 
hang  tufts  of  ribbon.  As  for  the  child  who  leads  it,  he 
walks  along  quite  gravely,  with  the  air  of  a  young  sacri- 
ficial priest.  And,  indeed,  it  is  no  small  distinction  for 
him  to  have  been  chosen  as  the  leader  of  the  "  Blessed 
Lamb;"  many  of  his  companions  would  have  liked  the 
honour,  boys  who,  like  himself,  fulfilled  the  two  con- 
ditions required — not  to  have  passed  the  age  of  inno- 
cence, and  to  have  been  entered  in  the  baptismal  register 
under  the  name  of  John. 

The  police  have  opened  a  path  through  the  crowd, 
and  have  cleared  a  space  immediately  around  the 
Tantad.  An  old  drummer,  who  looks  as  though  he 
had  come  out  of  one  of  Raffet's  engravings,  beats 
with  his  withered  hands  on  a  grotesque  old  drum. 
The  National  Guard — nothing  comes  to  an  end 
in  Brittany — form  a  line,  armed  with  enormous  flint- 
lock blunderbusses,  that  were,  no  doubt,  used  in  the 
Chouanne  war  ;  and  then  the  various  processions  begin 
their  march  around  the  Tantad.  While  one  banner 
passes  along  after  another,  and  the  cured  of  yesterday 
follow  those  who  are  to  be  healed  to-morrow  in  an  end- 
less line,  some  telling  their  beads,  and  some  brandishing 
wax  candles,  peasants  near  the  fountain  are  fastening 
fireworks  to  posts,  of  which  I  have  never  been  able  to 
understand  the  use. 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  191 

"  Surely  they  are  not  going  to  let  them  off  now  ? "  I 
ask  Parkik. 

"  Yes,"  says  he  ;  "  it  is  the  usual  beginning  of  the 
Tantad." 

It  is  impossible  to  realize  the  imaginative  faculty  of 
the  Breton  race  without  having  seen  one  of  these  festivals, 
which  sometimes  are  so  irresistibly  funny,  I  shall 
never  forget  the  delighted  shiver  that  ran  through  the 
childish  crowd,  as  each  rocket  went  whistling  up  into 
the  air.  It  scarcely  streaked  the  sky  with  its  pale 
fire,  and  died  out  instead  of  breaking  into  a  shower 
of  stars.  But  the  dear  souls  were  none  the  less  fasci- 
nated ;  and,  no  doubt,  where  my  eyes  saw  only  a  pale 
fleck  of  grey  smoke,  theirs  gazed  upon  a  magic  con- 
stellation, for  they  saw  in  the  heavens  the  mirage 
of  their  own  dreams.  Ah,  and  what  ecstasy  for  the 
school  children  !  What  shouts  of  excitement  every 
time  that  the  burning  stick  threatened  to  fall  on  some 
one.  .  .  . 

When  I  asked  whether  no  accident  ever  happened,  a 
neighbour  said — 

"For  as  far  back  as  I  remember,  there  has  only 
been  one,  and  that  no  doubt  was  allowed  by  Saint 
John." 

"Really?" 

"  Yes  !  A  shopkeeper  of  the  town,  a  bad  man,  came 
just  on  purpose  to  swagger  about  and  show  himself  off. 
*  How  idiotic  these  people  are,'  said  he,  *  to  let  off  fire- 
works at  five  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  a  bright  June 
day,  with  the  sun  still  shining.'  He  had  scarcely  spoken 
when  the  stick  of  a  rocket  put  out  his  eye,  and  his 
mocking  speech  ended  in  a  foolish  bellowing.     It  was  a 


192  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

rough  punishment,  certainly.  But  there  !  the  fire  is  like 
the  earth  itself,  too  old  to  allow  any  one  to  treat  it  with 
disrespect." 

A  comparative  quiet  has  succeeded  the  excitement. 
The  priests  have  taken  their  stand  on  the  foot  of  the 
calvary,  and  the  banners  for  the  most  part  have  been 
put  away  in  the  shelter  of  one  of  the  farm  courts.  Only 
the  great  banner  of  Saint  Jean  remains,  face  to  face 
with  the  Tantad.  At  a  sign  from  the  rector,  Landouar, 
the  little  athlete,  with  gnarled  body  and  stiffened 
muscles,  raises  and  inclines  it  three  times. 

"  That  is  the  signal,"  whispers  Parkik,  as  though  he 
were  speaking  in  church. 

The  crowd  itself  is  silent,  every  eye  directed  towards 
the  church  tower,  where  tiny  human  forms  can  be  seen 
hurrying  about  in  the  last  excitement  of  preparation. 
Four  or  five  solemn  minutes  pass  thus,  and  faces  are 
strained,  eager,  almost  anxious.  Then  the  rope  trembles, 
and  to  the  sound  of  firing,  the  Dragon  shoots  forth, 
hesitates.  .  .  .  The  wishes  that  are  made  during  his 
passage  through  the  air  are  sure  to  be  fulfilled,  if  only 
he  makes  the  transit  without  a  break.  For  it  sometimes 
happens  that  he  stops  short  in  distress,  or  even  goes 
back  again.  Those  versed  in  his  ways  will  tell  you  that 
he  has  his  tempers  and  his  moods.  For  instance,  look 
at  him  now  ;  he  is  making  as  though  he  would  stop,  and 
already  disappointed  mouths  are  saying — 

'•  I  never  have  any  luck  1     Oh,  well,  it  is  all  over  !  " 

But  no,  that  was  a  false  alarm.  All  the  wishes  will 
be  fulfilled.  He  has  triumphantly  finished  his  airy 
course,  and  planted  his  sting  in  the  flank  of  the  pile. 
...  A   slight    crackling,   a    few  puffs  of  smoke,   and 


'AN    TAN  :     AN     TAN  !  !" 


THE   PARDON   OF  FIRE  193 

with  a  quick  bound  the  flame  springs  up,  mounts, 
spreads.  .  .  . 

"An  Tan!     An  Tan!"*  .  .  . 

And  the  cry  mounts  also,  growing  at  sight  of  the 
flame  ;  that  cry  hallowed  by  numberless  solar  festivals  ; 
that  cry  that  rose  from  the  very  depths  of  the  soul  of 
the  ancients,  and  is  now  heard  on  the  lips  of  these  their 
far-away  sons.  Even  thus  was  it  that  Celts  of  old 
glorified  the  great  spirit  of  Life  and  Light,  as  they 
gathered  around  the  tribal  fires  on  the  slopes  of  the 
Himalayas.  Since  then  the  race  has  lived  through 
thousands  of  years,  and  traversed  vast  tracts  of  country. 
During  the  centuries  it  has  left  traces  of  its  religion  in 
many  lands  ;  and  here,  on  this  hill  crest  to-day,  can  be 
heard  the  echo  of  the  great  bygone  voices  still  reverbera- 
ting in  the  depths  of  these  Breton  souls  on  the  shore  of 
the  Western  ocean. 

"  An  Tan  !     An  Tan  !  " 

The  sight  is  indescribably  barbarous  and  beautiful. 
Supple  and  snakelike,  the  flame  soon  enfolds  the  pyramid 
in  its  glowing  rings.  Within  the  strong  embrace  the 
pile  seems  to  awaken,  to  shake  off  its  torpor,  to  come 
to  life.  A  monstrous  energy  takes  possession  of  its 
hitherto  motionless  form.  The  sharp  kiss  of  the  fire 
burrows  into  it,  excavating  and  carving  it,  till  little  by 
little  from  the  formless  block,  a  giant  shape,  a  black 
Moloch,  crowned  with  burning  cloud  and  robed  in 
flaming  purple,  seems  to  grow  ! 

"An  Tan!     An  Tan  !  " 

The  glow  of  the  god  has  become  so  intense,  that  it  is 
scarcely  possible  to  bear  either  the  heat  or  the  brilliance. 
*  "  The  Fire  !    The  Fire  !  " 


194  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

The  priests  have  fled.  Even  the  crowd  has  drawn  back. 
Only  the  blind  man  of  the  Bois  de  la  Nuit,  bareheaded, 
and  holding  his  rosary  between  his  fingers,  stands 
obstinately  facing  the  furnace,  gazing  upon  it  with  all 
the  despairing  tragedy  of  his  sightless  eyes.  A  noise  as 
of  great  organ-pipes,  a  storm  of  rushing  sounds,  swells 
and  escapes  in  blasts  of  wind  from  the  crimson  depths 
of  the  Tantad.  Then  all  at  once  there  is  a  still  louder 
roar,  followed  by  a  long-drawn  sigh.  It  is  the  final  flare 
before  the  sudden  end. 

"  An  Tan  !     An  Tan  !  " 

This  time  the  invocation  has  all  the  melancholy 
sweetness  of  a  farewell.  Slowly,  with  the  rustling  of 
falling  silk,  the  burning  brands  sink  down,  while  over- 
head the  flames  rise,  mount,  and  vanish  into  the  heavens. 
.  .  .  The  sabotier's  daughter  goes  up  to  where  her 
father  is  still  standing,  and  taking  hold  of  his  sleeve, 
says  sadly — 

"  It  is  finished  !  " 


THE   PARDON  OF  FIRE  195 


CHAPTER  X 

I  CAME  down  from  the  holy  mount  just  as  the  sun's 
rays,  half  hidden  by  the  western  heights,  began 
themselves  to  fail.  By  way  of  change  I  took  the 
route  the  procession  had  followed,  where  the  delicate 
foliage  of  ash  and  poplar  made  lace-work  on  the  mauve- 
coloured  shadows.  Seated  on  the  margins  of  the 
fountains,  old  women  with  bowls  in  their  hands  praised 
the  virtues  of  each  spring  to  the  Tantad  pilgrims. 

"  You  who  have  been  to  the  Fire,"  they  cried,  "  come 
to  the  Water  also  ! " 

And  thus,  all  along  the  winding  road,  I  made  my  way, 
to  the  sound  of  a  murmuring  litany  like  unto  the  hum- 
ming of  bees  round  a  hive.  A  great  calm  had  sunk  down 
from  the  cooling  sky,  and  the  declining  light  had  a  weary 
content  about  it,  though  passionate  still,  and  all  too 
glittering.  The  faces  of  the  people,  too,  though  more  at 
ease,  preserved  something  of  their  late  exaltation.  They 
walked  quietly  and  silently,  but  the  excitement  showed 
in  the  brilliancy  of  their  eyes. 

Every  one  carried  away  some  remembrance  of  the 
fire.  Some  had  scorched  the  pilgrim  staffs  they  had 
cut  that  morning  on  arriving  at  the  land  of  Saint  Jean  ; 
others,  quicker,  or  more  active,  had  replaced  them  by 
branches  of  charred  gorse.  Young  girls  held  bouquets, 
whose  flowers  had  been  burned  by  the  flame,  and  every 


196  THE   LAND  OF  PARDONS 

now  and  then  a  group  would  break  off  and  move  away 
in  the  direction  of  its  village,  calling  out,  by  way  of 
farewell,  the  sacred  wish — 

"  Yec'hed  ha  joa  a-beurz  Sant  Yann  vinniget !  "  * 
In  the  graveyard,  the  wild  horde  of  beggars  and 
cripples,  who  mount  guard  day  and  night,  were  making 
their  beds  between  the  tombs,  on  the  stone  benches  of 
the  porch,  even  under  the  vaulting  of  the  bone-house, 
where  once  the  lantern  of  the  dead  used  to  burn.  As 
I  passed  the  church,  I  glanced  in.  Before  a  pillar, 
surrounded  by  a  triple  band  of  candles,  a  priest  was 
presenting  the  relics  of  Saint  Meriadek  and  Saint 
Maudez  to  be  kissed  by  the  faithful.  Another,  perma- 
nently ensconced  within  the  altar  rails,  was  touching 
eyes  with  the  end  of  the  little  silver-gilt  case  that  con- 
tains the  finger  of  the  Forerunner.  And  finally,  near  a 
sort  of  zinc  cistern,  fitted  into  one  of  the  low  arches  of 
the  wall,  women  were  bathing  their  eyelids  and  lips 
with  their  handkerchiefs,  which  they  soaked  and  re- 
soaked  in  the  marvellous  water.  It  is  "Dour  ar  Bis  " 
(Water  of  the  Finger),  as  a  Breton  inscription  placed  over 
one  of  the  taps  informs  me.  .  .  .  Well,  I  have  left  all 
these  good  folk  to  their  practices,  and  with  no  other 
company  than  the  clear  singing  of  the  brook  of  Traoun- 
Meriadek,  more  silvery  than  ever  in  the  evening  stillness, 
I  have  wandered  down  to  the  sea-beach. 

Paths  bordered  by  privet,  hawthorn,  and  elder  lead 
thither,  passing  ancient  farms,  dismantled  manors,  built 
*'  during  the  lifetime  of  Queen  Anne,  when  Saint  Jean 
was  inhabited  only  by  gentlemen."  But  further  on,  at 
the  extreme  verge,  is  a  desert,  an  infinite  solitude. 

*  "Joy  and  good  health  from  the  blessed  Saint  John  ! " 


THE   PARDON   OF   FIRE  197 

When  I  reached  the  shore,  the  tide  was  low,  and  the 
promontories  lay  like  a  fleet  of  huge,  motionless  ships 
against  the  deep  splendour  of  the  setting  sun.  And 
behind  their  shadowy  hulls,  down  there  in  the  distant 
horizon,  towards  which  they  seemed  but  awaiting  a 
signal  to  set  sail,  another  Tantad  finished  dying,  the 
marvellous  fairy  Tantad  that  every  eventide  exhibits 
the  unapproachable  magic  of  the  sun. 


BOOK   IV.— SAINT   RONAN 
THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN 

DEDICATED   TO  JOSE-MARIA   DE   HEREDIA 

CHAPTER  I 

WHO  does  not  remember  those  charming  pages 
of  "  Souvenirs  d'enfance  et  de  jeunesse,"  which 
the  author  has  devoted,  with  such  good-humoured 
raillery,  to  that  amusing  saint,  Ronan,  forerunner  in 
Armorican  Brittany  of  the  clan  of  Renan  ! 

"  Among  all  Breton  saints,  never  has  there  been  one 
more  entirely  original.  His  story  has  been  told  me 
several  times,  and  on  every  occasion  the  circumstances 
were  more  and  more  extraordinary.  He  lived  in  Cor- 
nouailles,  near  the  little  town  that  bears  his  name.  He 
was  an  earth  spirit  rather  than  a  saint !  Over  the 
elements  his  powers  were  appalling,  while  in  character 
he  was  violent  and  rather  capricious.  It  was  impos- 
sible to  foretell  what  he  was  going  to  do,  or  what 
he  wished.  People  respected  him,  but  his  obstinate 
determination  to  live  alone,  and  go  his  own  way,  inspired 
them  with  awe.     So  much  so  indeed,  that  on  the  day 


THE   GRAND   TKCJ.MKNI  K   OK   1905,   AT   I.OCKONAN 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      199 

when  he  was  found  lying  dead  on  the  floor  of  his  cell, 
the  terror  in  the  neighbourhood  was  general.  The  first 
person  who,  happening  to  look  in  at  the  open  window, 
saw  him  stretched  out  on  the  ground,  ran  away  as  fast 
as  his  legs  would  carry  him. 

"  All  his  life  this  Ronan  had  been  so  self-willed  and 
exacting  that  no  one  dared  even  guess  what  he  would 
wish  to  have  done  with  his  body.  If  a  mistake  were 
made,  there  would  as  likely  as  not  be  an  outbreak  of 
plague,  a  town  swallowed  up,  an  entire  district  changed 
into  a  swamp,  or  some  other  of  those  visitations  by 
means  of  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  avenge 
himself  during  life.  To  take  him  to  the  church  seemed 
the  last  thing  likely  to  suit  him  ;  he  always  appeared  to 
have  a  special  aversion  to  it,  and  moreover  he  was  quite 
capable  of  resisting,  of  making  a  scandal. 

"  All  the  chiefs  assembled  together  in  the  cell  around 
the  great  dark  body  lying  on  the  ground  ;  and  at  last 
one  of  them  gave  this  sage  advice — 

"  *  During  his  life  we  were  never  able  to  understand 
him  ;  it  would  have  been  easier  to  foretell  the  flight  of 
the  swallow  through  the  heavens  than  to  follow  the 
course  of  his  thoughts  ;  now  he  is  dead  he  had  better 
still  have  his  way.  Let  us  cut  down  some  trees  and 
make  a  cart.  To  it  we  will  harness  four  oxen  ;  he  will 
be  quite  capable  of  guiding  them  to  the  place  where  he 
wishes  to  be  buried  ! ' 

"  Every  one  approved  of  this  idea.  So  they  made  a 
rough  cart,  putting  solid  wheels  to  it,  cut  from  the 
thickness  of  a  great  oak  tree,  and  upon  this  they  laid 
the  body  of  the  saint.  Then  the  oxen,  guided  by  the 
unseen  hand  of  Ronan,  walked  straight  forward  into  the 


200  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

thickest  part  of  the  forest.  The  trees  bowed  down,  or 
broke  short  off  before  their  steps,  with  fearful  crackings. 
Arrived  in  the  very  centre  of  the  forest,  where  the  largest 
oak  trees  grew,  the  cart  stopped  short ;  so  every  one 
understood,  and  they  buried  the  saint  there,  and  built 
his  church  over  him." 

The  people's  story,  more  legendary,  has  yet  its 
special  charm.  I  have  gathered  the  principal  events 
together  in  the  very  country  where  the  saint  passed  the 
greater  part  of  his  life,  and  in  the  following  pages  you 
will  find  related  at  length,  some  of  these  extraordinary 
occurrences  to  which  M.  Renan  barely  alludes, 

Ronan  was  born  in  Ireland,  traditional  home  of 
most  Celtic  saints.  One  day  I  asked  an  old  woman 
of  Begard — 

"  Where  is  this  land  of  Ireland,  whose  name  is  always 
on  your  lips  ? " 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  have  been  told  that  it  was 
originally  a  little  chip  broken  off  from  paradise.  God 
fashioned  it  into  a  steep,  lonely  island,  which  He 
anchored  by  diamond  cables  in  the  midst  of  a  sea 
quite  unknown  to  sailors.  So  soon  as  it  touched  the 
waters  they  lost  their  bitterness,  and,  for  seven  leagues 
around  the  island,  became  sweet  as  milk.  The  isle  itself 
was  hidden  by  a  thick  mist,  which  floated  in  a  circle  all 
around  it,  and  a  soft,  unchanging  light  illumined  the 
country.  There,  under  the  form  of  great  white  birds, 
lived  the  souls  that  were  intended  for  the  bodies  of 
saints  ;  and  from  thence,  at  the  call  of  God,  they  started 
forth  to  evangelize  the  world.  I  ought  to  tell  you  that 
originally  they  were  of  the  number  of  eleven  hundred 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      201 

thousand.  When  the  hour  has  struck  for  the  departure 
of  the  last,  the  diamond  cables  will  part  asunder,  and 
the  island  remount  to  heaven  as  lightly  as  a  cloud." 

In  those  early  days  there  were  cod  fisheries  off  the 
Breton  coast,  and  it  was  not  unusual  for  the  fishermen 
to  remain  whole  weeks  together  at  sea.  One  night 
when  the  men  were  asleep,  stretched  in  their  boats,  a 
great  disturbance  began  in  the  water.  The  man  on  guard 
roused  his  companions. 

"  Look  ! "  said  he  ;  and  they  saw  a  very  strange  sight. 
A  rock  came  sailing  towards  them,  leaving  a  long  quiet 
track  behind  it,  as  though  the  waves  trembled  at  its 
touch.  It  was  garlanded  with  unknown  seaweeds,  that 
exhaled  so  sweet  and  strong  a  scent  that  all  the  air, 
and  even  the  sea,  was  perfumed.  On  the  summit  of  the 
rock  a  figure  knelt  in  prayer,  with  head  surrounded  by 
a  nimbus,  the  glory  of  which  illumined  the  night.  It 
was  Saint  Ronan,  who  had  come  to  dwell  on  the  shores 
of  Armorica. 

He  landed  in  one  of  the  little  bays  of  Leon,  and  he 
could  not  have  made  a  more  unfortunate  choice.  The 
coast  just  there  was  inhabited  by  wreckers  and  pirates. 
They  worshipped  rude  gods,  whom  they  identified  with 
the  oak  of  the  forest  and  the  reef  of  the  ocean.  They  did 
not  rob  the  saint,  whose  only  possession  was  his  cloth 
robe,  too  shabby  for  them  to  covet,  but  they  made  no 
secret  of  the  fact  that  his  presence  was  objectionable  to 
them  ;  and  when  he  began  talking  about  the  new  law,  the 
law  that  the  Christ  had  sealed  with  His  blood,  they  turned 
their  backs  on  him  with  contempt,  and  called  him  a 
dreamer,  the  most  opprobrious  name  they  could  use. 
So  Ronan  was  obliged  to   give  up  the  conversion  of 


202  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

these  savages ;   but  he  made   up  his  mind   to  try  and 
render  them  less  dangerous  to  other  people. 

The  Irish  saints  never  travelled  without  a  bell,  whose 
sound,  among  other  virtues,  was  able  to  make  itself 
heard  distinctly  to  the  furthest  limits  of  the  earth.  So 
Ronan  used  his  on  foggy  nights  to  warn  off  vessels  that 
were  out  of  their  course,  and  to  let  them  know  they 
were  nearing  the  coast.  Thus  shipwrecks  became  rare,  in 
spite  of  the  fires  the  natives  lighted  on  the  hilltops,  and 
the  people  of  the  land  were  filled  with  indignation. 
The  women  were  especially  indignant. 

"  Up  to  this  hour,"  they  cried,  "  the  sea  has  been  our 
nurse,  with  a  breast  that  never  failed  us.  Jewelled 
bodies  used  to  come  ashore  on  our  beach,  and  the  storm 
was  our  benefactor ;  every  morning  brought  us  some 
harvest.  Think,  oh  men,  think  of  the  casks  of  golden 
wine  from  which  your  lips  have  so  often  quaffed  the 
mysterious  drunkenness,  that  doubled  your  strength, 
excited  you,  and  made  us  more  beautiful  and  desirable 
in  your  eyes.  But  already  those  days  are  over.  From 
the  moment  when  this  foreign  hermit  appeared  in  our 
midst,  our  good  fortune  left  us.  He  must  be  some 
wicked  magician  ;  he  has  thrown  a  spell  over  us,  and 
determined  that  we  should  perish  miserably.  Why  do 
you  not  arise  and  rid  yourselves  of  him  ?  " 

These  words  came  to  the  ears  of  the  saint ;  and  in 
order  not  to  bring  punishment  upon  the  people  who  had 
maligned  him,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  them,  and 
go  far  away  into  the  depths  of  the  country;  and 
accordingly,  having  tucked  up  his  hermit's  gown,  he 
started  forth  to  find  another  home.  The  rock  upon 
which  he  had  crossed  the  waters,  his  "  Stone  Mare,"  as 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      203 

he  called  it,  followed  him  in  this  new  exile.  They 
traversed  unnamed  rivers,  made  their  way  through  dark 
forests,  where  they  heard  the  trees  reminding  one 
another  that  they  had  once  been  gods.  Sometimes  im- 
passable thickets  stopped  their  onward  path ;  then 
Ronan  rang  his  bell,  and  the  brambles  parted  asunder, 
and  disentangled  themselves  of  their  own  accord. 

When  at  length  they  emerged  from  the  woods  they 
found  themselves  on  a  lofty  plateau,  carpeted  only  with 
gorse  and  sweet-smelling  herbs.  This  region  was  domi- 
nated by  a  naked  mountain,  round  as  the  cupola  of  a 
temple.  Ronan  stuck  his  pilgrim  staff  in  the  ground, 
and  it  became  at  once  a  granite  cross,  showing  him  that 
this  was  the  spot  in  which  he  was  to  settle.  The  Stone 
Mare  lay  down  on  the  earth,  the  saint  sank  upon  his 
knees  in  prayer.  It  was  the  evening  hour,  so  especially 
sweet  in  Brittany.  At  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  towards 
the  west,  lay  smiling  fields,  and  from  unseen  roofs,  veiled 
in  foliage,  calm  spirals  of  smoke  rose  into  the  air. 
Further  off  stretched  the  sea,  among  whose  waters,  grey 
as  ashes,  the  last  rays  of  the  vanished  sun  were  dying. 

"  May  peace  for  ever  dwell  in  this  quiet  land," 
murmured  the  saint.  His  wish  has  certainly  been  ful- 
filled ;  perhaps  in  no  part  of  the  world  is  the  silence 
greater,  deeper,  more  soothing,  than  upon  this  humble 
Breton  summit.  It  has  preserved  its  primitive  appearance, 
its  unchanged  look  of  long  ago.  There  arc  boughs  of 
broom  centuries  old.  Cattle  come  to  browse  on  the 
short  grass  in  springtime,  but  man  himself  has  not 
ventured  to  change  the  face  of  the  ground  ;  it  remains 
just  as  it  was  twelve  hundred  years  ago,  a  virgin  height, 
an  oasis  of  dreamland. 


204  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

Here  Ronan  passed  exquisite  days,  face  to  face  with 
the  breezes  that  flew  straight  over  from  Ireland,  bringing 
him  perfumed  messages  from  his  far-away  home.  He  built 
a  hut  on  the  western  slope,  a  penitentiary  cell,  roughly 
made  from  branches  tied  together,  and  plastered  over 
with  a  little  mortar.  But  he  only  came  there  at  night, 
to  say  his  prayers  and  to  sleep.  From  earliest  dawn 
he  was  afoot,  wandering  about  the  mountain  paths.  He 
set  himself  a  certain  round  to  go  twice  a  day,  never  vary- 
ing it  by  a  single  step.  In  the  morning  he  walked  with 
the  sun,  in  the  evening  against  it.  Even  the  rain  did 
not  stop  him,  but  then  it  fell  upon  him  without  wetting 
him.  This  walk  of  his  on  the  flank  of  the  mountain 
occupied  several  leagues,  and  he  would  wander  along 
for  hours  together,  holding  converse  with  all  kinds  of 
things,  whose  silent  language  he  understood.  He  loved 
all  the  beasts,  and  they  came  to  him  when  he  called 
them.  From  afar  they  would  see  him  coming,  and  run 
to  meet  him.  It  is  said  that  in  order  to  gain  their  con- 
fidence he  would  sometimes  amuse  himself  by  assuming 
their  form  ;  he  tamed  even  the  most  ferocious,  and  then 
preached  to  them. 

The  story  is  told  of  a  certain  wolf  who  held  him  in 
great  esteem,  and  who,  in  order,  as  he  thought,  to 
give  him  pleasure,  came  one  day  and  laid  a  poor 
gasping  little  lamb  at  his  feet.  The  good  saint  first 
took  the  lamb  and  healed  it,  and  then  addressed  so 
touching  a  sermon  to  the  wolf,  that  he  converted  him 
entirely  from  his  evil  ways,  so  that  from  that  time  the 
saying  has  arisen,  "As  gentle  as  Saint  Ronan's  wolf!  " 

But  just  as  he  sought  the  friendship  of  animals  and 
loved  the  company  of  plants,  so  did  he  shun  the  society 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      205 

of  man.  Since  his  unpleasant  experiences  on  the  in- 
hospitable coast  of  Leon,  he  had  retained  somewhat 
painful  remembrances  of  them,  and  distrusted  them. 
If  a  human  being  happened  to  cross  his  path,  he 
would  look  at  him  with  such  terrible  eyes  that  the  un- 
happy man  was  idiotic  for  weeks.  It  was  the  saint's 
method  of  keeping  the  road  that  he  had  chosen  free 
for  himself. 

But  though  he  gained  his  point,  and  was  left 
alone,  his  reputation  suffered  a  good  deal.  All  kinds 
of  stories  began  to  be  told  about  him.  People  spoke 
of  him  as  a  sorcerer,  a  wizard ;  shepherds  declared 
that  they  had  seen  him  running  about  disguised  as  a 
were-wolf ;  he  was  accused  of  scattering  all  sorts  of  ills 
about  the  country.  They  made  him  responsible  for 
every  defect  of  the  weather,  of  which  he  was  reported  to 
have  the  supreme  command.  Did  a  hailstorm  destroy 
the  crops  in  the  plain,  or  a  sudden  tempest  tear  up  the 
sea,  so  that  the  fishing-boats  were  destroyed,  it  was  all 
owing  to  the  evil  magic  of  Ronan. 

And,  really,  it  must  be  confessed  that,  far  from  trying 
to  quiet  these  ideas,  he  sometimes  seems  to  have  taken 
pains  to  exasperate  people. 

One  day,  for  instance,  as  he  was  walking  under  the 
spreading  shadows  of  the  forest  of  Ncvet,  close  to  his 
hermitage,  he  saw  a  woodman  preparing  to  cut  down  an 
oak  tree.  Each  blow  of  the  axe  drew  from  the  tree  a 
heavy  sigh  that  echoed  sadly  in  the  heart  of  the  hermit. 

"  Why  are  you  ill-treating  that  Old  Man  of  the 
Woods  ?  "  asked  he,  wrathfully. 

"I  want  to  make  some  planks  for  my  granary," 
answered  the  man. 


206  THE   LAND  OF   PARDONS 

"  Be  careful  that  they  are  not  used  for  your  coffin  !  " 
replied  the  saint. 

At  the  same  instant  the  oak  fell,  crushing  the  wood- 
man beneath  it.  No  one  doubted  for  an  instant  that 
Ronan  was  the  culprit,  and  the  people  of  the  country 
began  to  think  of  nothing  else  but  how  they  might  rid 
themselves  of  him.  Secret  councils  were  held  in  the 
forest  clearings  by  the  pale  light  of  the  moon,  that 
goddess  of  nocturnal  plots,  still  adored  by  these  pagans. 
Just  as  every  one  had  agreed  that  the  hermit  must  be 
surprised  in  his  hut,  and  murdered  during  his  sleep,  the 
head  of  the  house  of  Kern^vez,  a  wise,  broad-minded 
man,  interrupted  the  discussion  by  observing  that  such 
conduct  would  not  only  be  wicked,  but  very  dangerous. 

"  It  is,"  said  he,  "  one  of  two  things  :  either  this  Ronan 
has  not  the  power  which  you  attribute  to  him,  in  which 
case  why  break  all  laws,  human  and  divine,  by  murdering 
him  ?  or  he  does  possess  them,  and,  if  so,  how  can  your 
feeble  conspiracies  prevail  against  him?  If  he  is  the 
enchanter  you  believe  him  to  be,  he  has  nothing  to  fear 
from  your  enmity;  while  you,  if  you  offend  him,  have 
everything  to  dread  from  his  anger." 

This  argument  cooled  the  zeal  of  the  most  eager. 

"  In  your  place,"  continued  the  master  of  Kernevez, 
"  I  should  choose  a  deputy,  and  send  him  to  represent 
your  grievances.  Between  ourselves,  I  do  not  think  you 
will  find  him  as  wicked  as  you  imagine.  I  have  several 
times  followed  him  at  a  distance  in  his  morning  walks. 
Shall  I  tell  you  what  he  has  been  doing  ?  Setting 
flies  free  from  those  light  webs  the  spiders  weave 
by  night  over  the  gorse  bushes !  .  .  .  A  wicked  spirit 
would  never  care  about  such  things." 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      207 

A  voice  cried  from  among  the  crowd — 

"  Well,  go  you  on  our  behalf,  and  plead  our  cause 
with  him  ! " 

"I  was  just  about  to  propose  that  very  course," 
answered  the  head  of  the  house,  the  Penn-tiern,  with 
the  quiet  modesty  that  was  habitual  to  him. 

So  without  further  delay  he  set  off  for  the  mountain. 
The  moon  had  gone  down,  but  on  the  crest  of  the  hill 
the  hermit's  cell  shone  like  a  mysterious  shrine.  Ronan 
was  asleep,  stretched  on  the  bare  earth,  his  hands  crossed, 
his  head  surrounded  by  a  strange  light,  while  over  the 
doorless  threshold  lay  his  feet.  The  master  of  Kernevez 
sat  down  on  the  grass  and  waited  for  the  saint  to  wake. 
He  felt  his  heart  stirred  vaguely,  and  into  his  rude  brain 
came  strange  thoughts  that  surprised  and  frightened  him. 

At  last  the  dawn  began  to  break.  As  soon  as 
the  first  sun-ray  fell  on  the  back  of  the  Stone  Mare, 
she  uttered  a  soft  whinny,  and  the  anchorite  opened  his 
eyes.  He  did  not  seem  in  the  least  surprised  at  seeing 
the  Penn-tiern  outside  his  hut  in  an  attitude  of  supplica- 
tion, but  going  up  to  him,  commanded  him  to  rise  and 
follow  him.  Then  they  began  to  walk  together  in  that 
high  solitude.  Their  sight  wandered  afar,  over  land 
and  sea  bathed  by  the  new-born  sun  in  a  purple  vapour, 
above  which  hung  ineffable  harmonics  of  colour.  The 
master  of  Kernevez  had  always  lived  in  this  place,  he 
knew  its  every  detail,  but  now  for  the  first  time  its 
inner  meaning  was  revealed  to  him.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  were  looking  upon  it  with  new-made,  clearer 
eyes,  and  he  began  to  shed  tears,  without  knowing  why, 
like  a  child,  or  a  drunken  man.  Then  said  Ronan  to 
him — 


208  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

"Aye,  weep,  weep!  It  is  God  entering  into  your 
soul ! " 

Around  them  the  bracken  was  fresh ;  warm,  gentle 
breezes  played  in  the  clear  air.  Never  had  the  morning 
been  more  beautiful,  never  had  the  world  appeared  more 
exquisitely  winning. 

When  Ronan  felt  that  the  soul  of  his  companion 
was  sufficiently  softened,  moistened,  ready  to  receive  the 
good  grain,  he  began  to  tell  him  the  wonderful  story  of 
Jesus,  who  consecrated  the  wilderness  as  a  place  of 
prayer  ;  of  Jesus,  who  preached  from  the  tops  of  the 
mountains,  with  the  sea  spread  out  at  his  feet,  and 
taught  the  sons  of  men  the  lesson  of  Universal  Love. 
The  hermit,  of  whose  fierce  humour  the  Penn-tiern  had 
been  warned,  spoke  with  such  power  and  sweetness,  the 
stories  he  told  of  that  Galilean  Life  were  in  themselves 
so  captivating,  that  the  listener  forgot  everything  else. 
At  length  the  saint,  pointing  to  the  grey  wing  of  even- 
ing that  began  to  overshadow  the  sky,  was  obliged  to 
dismiss  him. 

"  Well,  what  had  the  great  man  of  the  mountain  got 
to  say  ?  "  asked  the  people  of  the  plain,  the  shepherds, 
and  the  fishermen,  when  the  master  of  Kernevez  re- 
appeared among  them. 

So  he  told  them,  word  for  word,  what  Ronan  had 
spoken,  for  it  was  all  engraven  on  his  memory,  and 
he  could  reproduce  it  even  to  the  tone  of  the  voice. 
In  his  simplicity  he  was  eloquent.  More  than  one  of 
his  audience  seemed  touched.  But  the  others,  the 
majority,  after  having  listened  as  though  stupefied, 
began  to  murmur  against  him.  They  could  not  under- 
stand   how  such  a  wise  man  as  the  Penn-tiern  could 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUxNTAIN      209 

suddenly  have  become  an  apostle  of  these  new  ideas,  so 
destructive  of  their  ancient  religion.  They  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  hermit  had  bewitched  him,  and 
their  hatred  of  Ronan  increased ;  while  towards  the 
master  of  Kernevez  they  felt  that  superstitious  pity 
that  in  Brittany  is  always  given  to  fools  and  lunatics. 

But  he  neither  retorted  nor  complained.  He  saw 
his  dearest  friends  become  estranged  without  any  feel- 
ing of  resentment.  According  to  Ronan,  this  was  but 
the  usual  lot  of  any  one  wishing  to  enter  the  holy  life. 
He  never  passed  a  day  without  meeting  the  anchorite, 
in  a  place  agreed  upon  by  themselves,  on  the  border  of 
the  land  of  Kernevez,  half  up  the  mountain  slope.  A 
hedge  of  wild  plum  trees  sheltered  them  from  prying 
eyes,  pine  trees  shaded  their  heads,  and  through  a  clear- 
ing they  could  see  the  sea,  stretching  away  into  the 
distance,  opening  a  field  of  immensity  to  their  thoughts 
and  common  meditation.  There  this  rough  disciple  of 
Ronan  was  gradually  initiated  into  the  charms  of  a  con- 
templative life.  He  became  so  enamoured  of  it,  that 
soon  he  began  to  look  upon  other  cares  as  unworthy  of 
his  high  calling.  In  order  to  taste  the  joys  of  the  soul, 
this  peasant  laid  aside  all  worldly  passions.  He  who 
had  always  been  regarded  as  a  model  farmer  now 
neglected  his  fields,  ceased  to  superintend  his  business, 
left  the  servants  to  act  as  masters.  People  of  the 
neighbourhood  began  to  gossip  about  him.  Finally, 
one  day,  his  wife  heard  of  it. 

As  his  business  kept  him  out-of-doors,  while  she  had 
to  stay  at  home  to  look  after  the  house,  he  had  been 
able  to  steal  away  on  his  pious  escapades  without 
arousing  her  suspicions.     But  he  had  always  foreseen 


210  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

that  one  day  or  other  he  would  be  found  out.  At  last 
certain  friendly  neighbours  informed  against  him. 

One  evening,  as  he  was  returning  to  the  farm,  after 
an  interview  with  Ronan,  he  found  his  wife  on  the  road, 
waiting  for  him. 

"  So,"  cried  she,  "  this  is  the  way  you  behave  your- 
self! I  have  been  hearing  nice  things  about  you ! 
When  you  ought  to  be  at  work  among  the  servants 
you  are  idling  away  your  time  upon  the  mountain,  in 
company  with  a  disreputable  rascal,  who  is  the  scorn 
and  terror  of  the  neighbourhood.  Have  you  made  up 
your  mind  that  your  children  are  to  be  beggars,  and  I, 
your  wife,  to  die  of  grief  ?  "  .  .  . 

Tradition,  which  retains  some  things,  and  forgets 
others,  has  lost  the  name  of  the  master  of  Kernevez,  but 
tells  us  that  the  wife  was  called  Keb^n.  Mons.  de  la 
Villemarqud  wishes  us  to  see  in  her  a  kind  of  fierce 
Druidess,  Queen  of  the  Sacred  Wood.  The  country- 
folk, however,  paint  a  less  picturesque,  but  perhaps 
truer  picture  of  her.  She  was  probably  a  notable 
farmer's  wife,  rather  mean,  hard  on  herself,  and  hard  on 
others,  occupied  entirely  in  saving  money,  and  leaving 
her  children  an  estate  free  from  debt.  Of  a  headstrong 
character,  she  ruled  her  household  with  a  rod  of  iron. 
For  the  rest,  she  was  a  capable,  respectable  woman, 
seldom  ordering  anything  save  what  was  judicious.  She 
had  always  kept  her  husband  well  in  hand,  and  it  is 
easy  to  imagine  her  fury  when  she  found  that  he  had 
deceived  her.  She  ordered  him  to  give  up  the  saint 
at  once.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  rebelled, 
and  to  all  her  threats  and  scoldings  returned  nothing 
but  a  gentle,  determined  refusal.     From  that  moment, 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE  MOUNTAIN      211 

the  manor  of  Kernevez,  once  so  orderly  and  peaceful, 
became  a  hell  upon  earth.  From  morning  till  night 
Keben  rushed  about  the  great  kitchen  like  a  wolf  in  a 
ca^ge,  grinding  her  teeth  and  shouting.  The  children 
shrank  away  into  corners,  behind  the  furniture,  and  cried 
quietly,  afraid  to  go  near  her.  Labourers  and  servants 
left  the  house  one  after  another  ;  the  place  fell  into  dis- 
order, flocks  and  herds,  no  longer  cared  for,  wandered 
miserably  about  the  fields.  Meanwhile  the  man  con- 
tinued to  visit  the  saint  on  the  mountain,  paying  no 
regard  to  the  ruin  that  began  to  face  him  on  all  sides. 
He  cared  no  more  for  earthly  things.  He  dwelt  in  his 
dream  as  in  some  high  tower,  whence  he  could  see 
nothing  but  heaven. 

And  now  another  kind  of  passion  began  to  sway 
Keben.  She  became  possessed  of  a  fixed  idea  of 
revenging  herself  on  Ronan,  whom  she  described  as  a 
Ravisher  of  Men.  She  joined  the  enemies  of  the  saint, 
and  we  know  that  they  were  numerous.  Secret  meet- 
ings were  held  at  Kernevez  during  the  absence  of  the 
husband,  at  which  they  drank  mead  out  of  buffalo-horns. 
At  the  end  of  a  few  days  of  this  kind  of  thing,  Keb^n, 
before  a  gathering  of  fanatics,  excited  almost  to  frenzy, 
proposed  that  they  should  go  that  night,  under  cover  of 
darkness,  to  the  house  of  the  hermit,  set  fire  to  it,  and 
burn  him  alive. 

"  Come  !     Come  ! "  they  cried,  as  with  one  voice. 

But  their  enthusiasm  was  short  lived.  The  fresh 
night  air  soon  sobered  them,  and  in  place  of  their 
excitement  they  began  to  feel  certain  mysterious  fore- 
bodings. They  fancied  they  heard  threatening  voices 
in  the  wind.      The  undergrowth  into  which  their  feet 


212  THE   LAND  OF   PARDONS 

sank  seemed  a  magic  net  laid  to  entrap  them  ;  and  at 
last  a  strange  apparition  terrified  them  nearly  out  of 
their  senses.  The  gigantic  form  of  a  beast  arose  on 
the  mountain,  and  thrice  a  frightful  neighing  rent  the 
air.  All  the  band  scattered  like  a  flock  of  sparrows. 
Only  Keben  remained,  her  hatred  arming  her  against 
fear.  At  the  call  of  the  Stone  Mare,  Ronan  emerged 
from  his  hut.  He  came  towards  the  farmer's  wife, 
saying — 

"  Take  care  that  you  do  not  cross  the  circle  marked 
by  the  holly  bushes.  This  is  a  place  where  no  women 
are  allowed." 

Then  Keben,  gathering  herself  together,  prepared  to 
spring  at  his  face ;  but  when  she  tried  to  jump,  some 
unknown  force  held  her  captive,  and  her  limbs  grew 
stiff  beneath  her,  as  though  turned  to  stone.  Then, 
with  the  impotence  of  rage,  she  flung  out  a  torrent  of 
curses,  calling  the  saint  by  the  most  odious  names  she 
knew. 

"  Yes,"  she  shrieked,  "  you  forbid  women  to  come  to 
your  lair,  but  you  attract  the  men,  you  evil  sorcerer ! 
.  .  .  Tell  me,  what  have  you  done  with  the  master  of 
Kernevez  ?  What  maddening  potion  have  you  given 
him  ?  .  .  .  We  never  interfered  with  you  ;  then  why  did 
you  come  after  us  ?  .  .  .  Look  at  that  house  down 
among  the  beech  trees !  We  worked  there  happily  and 
quietly.  A  cheerful  smoke  rose  from  the  roof,  like  a 
constant  prayer  to  the  gods  on  high.  And  now  your 
arts  have  chased  away  all  prosperity,  and  put  ruin  in  its 
place.  Where  is  now  the  peace  of  our  souls  ?  You 
have  made  war  between  husband  and  wife.  By  the 
sun  and  the  moon  I  curse  you  ! " 


THE    PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      213 

The  saint,  with  his  eyes  raised  on  high,  prayed 
quietly.     As  soon  as  he  had  finished,  he  said — 

"Woman,  I  give  you  back  the  use  of  your  limbs. 
Return  to  your  children,  whom  you  have  forgotten  to 
feed  this  evening.  Their  crying  hinders  me  from  hearing 
what  you  say." 

And,  in  fact,  a  soft,  plaintive  sobbing  came  up  on  the 
sea-breeze. 

"  We  shall  meet  again,"  growled  K^ben,  in  a  tone  of 
defiance. 

"  God  grant  that  it  may  be  in  heaven  !  "  answered 
Ronan. 

The  mistress  of  Kernevez  returned  to  her  home,  her 
heart  sore  within  her.  For  many  days  she  remained 
crouching  on  the  hearthstone,  neither  speaking  nor 
sleeping.  And  in  the  stillness  and  silence  she  was 
brooding  over  a  horrible  idea.  One  night  when  she 
was  sure  that  every  one  was  asleep,  she  rose  and  went 
into  the  room  where  the  children  were  lying.  There, 
among  her  brothers,  was  Soezic,  the  eldest  girl,  scarcely 
eight  years  old,  a  pretty  little  fair-haired  creature, 
delicate  as  an  angel. 

She  was  her  father's  favourite,  on  account  of  her 
gentleness  and  sweetness.  Taking  her  carefully  into 
her  arms  so  as  not  to  awaken  her,  Keben  went  silently 
out  to  the  barn.  In  one  corner  of  this  building,  hidden 
behind  a  stack  of  faggots,  was  an  old  disused  chest, 
hollowed  by  fire  from  the  trunk  of  an  enormous  oak, 
with  sides  as  thick  as  those  of  some  granite  sarcophagus 
made  for  the  burial  of  a  great  chieftain.  The  unnatural 
mother  laid  her  child  at  the  bottom  of  the  chest,  shut 
the  heavy  lid,  double-locked  it,  and  then,  having  once 


214  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

more  taken  her  seat  beside  the  hearth,  began  uttering 
the  most  frightful  cries,  like  those  of  an  animal  whose 
throat  is  being  cut.  The  master  of  Kernevez  jumped 
out  of  bed,  terrified. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  wife  ?  In  the  name  of  God, 
what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

For  answer  she  pointed  to  the  door  of  the  children's 
room.  Going  in,  he  saw  that  the  little  girl  was  missing. 
Already  the  neighbours  had  come  running  at  the  noise ; 
the  kitchen  was  soon  full  of  inquisitive  faces.  And  then 
at  last  Keben  spoke. 

Since  her  quarrel  with  the  saint  she  had  been  ex- 
pecting something  of  this  kind  to  happen.  He  had 
threatened  her  with  it,  that  was  why  she  had  been  on 
the  watch.  And  now  to-night,  when  she  had  dropped 
asleep  from  weariness,  she  had  been  awakened  suddenly 
by  a  voice  crying  feebly — 

"Mamm !  mamm !" 

She  had  tried  to  rouse  herself,  but  in  vain.  Some 
charm  paralyzed  her.  At  the  same  moment  the 
monstrous  form  of  a  man-wolf  passed  close  to  her, 
carrying  in  his  jaws  the  bleeding  body  of  Soezic. 

It  was  quite  evident  that  this  man-wolf  was  no 
other  than  Ronan  ;  such  was  the  universal  verdict.  The 
husband  would  have  interposed,  have  uttered  a  protest ; 
but  all  minds  were  quite  made  up,  and  no  one  would 
listen  to  a  word.  It  was  decided  then  and  there  to 
go  to  King  Gralon-Meur  at  Quimper,  to  tell  him  of  the 
horrible  crime,  and  demand  justice  on  the  culprit. 

So  the  procession,  growing  larger  with  every  village 
through  which  it  passed,  accompanied  Keben  to  the 
palace  of  the  king.     Gralon  was  impressed  by  so  large 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      215 

a  gathering,  and  sent  a  band  of  archers  with  orders  to 
fetch  the  saint  immediately.  As  soon  as  he  saw  him  he 
felt  that  the  people  had  spoken  the  truth.  With  his 
hairy  face,  his  burning,  ascetic  eyes,  shadowed  by  shaggy 
brows,  with  his  rough  cloth  coat,  dirty,  worn,  ragged, 
yellow  like  the  skin  of  a  wolf,  and  taken  in  at  the  waist 
by  a  girdle  of  tough  bark,  with  his  feet  soiled  by  mud, 
and  the  nails  of  his  fingers  pointed  and  black  like  claws, 
the  hermit  certainly  had  the  appearance  of  a  wild  beast 
rather  than  of  a  human  being. 

"  We  will  soon  tell  whether  his  nature  is  that  of  a 
wolf  or  a  man,"  said  Gralon.  "  I  have  two  dogs  here 
who  will  show  us." 

The  terrible  beasts  were  loosed  upon  Ronan  ;  but 
instead  of  tearing  him  in  pieces,  they  lay  quietly  down 
at  his  feet,  licking  his  rags,  and  begging  him  to  caress 
them. 

The  crowd  was  altogether  stupefied,  and  Gralon-Meur, 
coming  towards  the  anchorite,  bowed  low  and  said — 

"There  must  be  some  wonderful  power  about  you 
to  have  impressed  my  dogs.  Speak  then,  and  put  your 
accusers  to  silence,  that  justice  may  be  done." 

**  I  will  speak,"  answered  Ronan,  "  not  for  my  own 
sake,  who  am  accountable  only  to  God,  but  because  of 
the  child,  the  innocent  victim  of  this  horrible  plot.  Send 
some  one,  oh  King,  to  bring  hither  the  great  chest  that 
stands  in  the  barn  at  Kernevez,  behind  the  heap  of 
faggots." 

This  was  done  according  to  his  wish,  and  when  they 
opened  the  great  oak  trunk  there  lay  the  little  girl, 
white  as  wax.  She  was  stretched  on  her  side,  dead  ! 
The  heart  must  have  been  hard  indeed  that  did  not 


216  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

weep  at  the  sight.  Ronan  himself,  it  is  said,  for  the 
only  time  in  his  life,  showed  marks  of  feeling.  He 
leaned  down  over  the  little  body,  and  calling  her  by 
name  very  softly,  murmured — 

"  Little  Soezic,  pretty  floweret,  your  eyes  have 
closed  too  soon.  God  wishes  you  to  open  them  again, 
and  gaze  for  a  long  while  yet  on  the  blessed  sun." 

He  spoke !  .  .  .  The  fresh  tints  of  childhood  came 
once  more  into  the  face  of  the  dead  child,  and  she 
rose  smiling  from  the  depths  of  the  chest.  The  crowd, 
delighted  at  the  sight  of  the  miracle,  leapt  with  joy, 
shouting  the  praises  of  the  saint,  crying  that  Keben 
ought  to  be  stoned.     But  Ronan  said — 

"  I  wish  this  woman  to  return  home,  safe  and 
sound ! " 

From  that  day  forth  the  hermit  lived  respected  by  all 
those  who  had  formerly  ill-treated  him,  and  the  religion 
he  professed  soon  replaced  the  ancient  cults.  But,  for 
all  this,  he  changed  none  of  his  habits,  abstaining  as 
much  as  ever  from  all  direct  converse  with  men  ;  living, 
in  fact,  even  more  privately  than  before,  so  that  the 
veneration  he  inspired  remained  tinged  with  a  certain 
amount  of  fear.  People  used  to  watch  him  from  afar 
on  his  daily  rounds,  but  no  one  ever  had  the  boldness 
to  interrupt  him.  When  any  wished  to  speak  to  him  it 
was  done  through  the  medium  of  the  master  of  Kernevez, 
the  one  human  creature  whom  he  received  willingly,  and 
to  whom  he  condescended  to  listen. 

Saint  Corentin  came  one  day  to  visit  him  in  his  hut, 
in  order,  so  it  is  said,  to  resign  the  bishopric  of  Quimper 
in  his  favour.  He  found  the  entrance  closed  by  a 
simple  spider's  web,  which,  when  he  tried  to  pass,  could 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      217 

not  be  broken  ;  so  he  understood  that  Ronan  refused  to 
receive  him,  and  set  forth  again  on  his  road  back  to 
Quimper,  not  without  a  little  vexation. 

It  was  in  the  springtime,  on  the  vigil  of  Good 
Friday,  that  the  Hermit  of  the  Mountain  died.  As 
soon  as  his  soul  had  passed,  great  strange  clouds 
rushed  from  all  parts  of  the  sky,  and  gathered  about 
the  summit,  spreading  a  veil  of  darkness  over  the  sur- 
rounding country,  while  upward  from  the  shrine  rose  a 
column  of  white  smoke.  By  these  signs  every  one 
knew  that  Ronan  was  no  more  ;  but  they  waited  three 
days  before  venturing  to  cross  the  circle  of  the  sacred 
holly  trees.  The  temper  of  the  saint  was  to  be 
dreaded,  even  after  his  death.  At  last  the  Penn-Tiern 
himself  entered  the  cell.  The  corpse  presented  no  sign 
of  decomposition.  It  was  lying  in  the  attitude  that  the 
hermit  had  always  assumed  during  life,  his  active  feet 
across  the  doorsill,  the  scattered  strands  of  hair  lumin- 
ous like  flames.  With  one  hand  he  pressed  to  his 
bosom  a  book,  with  richly  chased  clasps — no  doubt, 
thought  the  peasants,  a  list  of  magical  charms — with 
the  other  he  grasped  his  bell,  the  musical  companion  of 
his  wanderings. 

We  have  already  seen  the  manner  of  his  funeral. 
As  soon  as  the  body  had  been  placed  upon  the  cart,  the 
oxen  began  to  march  and  the  iron  bell  to  ring.  All 
through  the  journey  it  sounded  thus,  with  little,  slow, 
thin  strokes,  like  a  funeral  knell.  The  team  immedi- 
ately took  to  the  route  which  Ronan  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  follow  morning  and  evening.  While  crossing 
the  land  of  Kern^vez,  the  procession  came  to  the  place 
where  Keben  was  busy  washing.  Ever  since  the  episode 


218  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

of  the  chest,  this  curious  woman  had  made  no  allusion 
whatever  to  it,  but  she  was  neither  improved  nor  soft- 
ened. Ronan's  forbearance,  instead  of  appeasing  her 
hatred,  had  increased  it.  On  hearing  of  his  death  she 
had  fallen  into  such  paroxysms  of  joy  that  for  a  moment 
every  one  thought  her  mad.  Not  only  did  she  refuse 
to  wear  mourning,  like  the  other  women  of  the  district, 
but  she  chose  the  day  of  the  burial  to  do  her  washing, 
thereby  committing  a  double  scandal,  for  it  was  the 
feast  of  Easter.  The  procession  advanced  in  a  silent 
throng  to  the  sound  of  the  little  bell,  when  suddenly 
above  the  noise  of  the  washing-racket,  rose  a  mock- 
ing song  from  behind  the  willows  that  bordered  the 
"  Lavoir  "— 

"  Bim  baon,  cloc'hou! 
Marw  e  J^gou, 
Gant  eur  c'horfad  ywadigennou.  .  .  ."  * 

Singing  thus,  in  a  loud,  strident  voice,  K6ben  faced 
them  impudently.  The  oxen,  however,  turned  aside 
into  the  meadow,  and  walked  straight  forward,  taking 
no  notice  of  the  linen  spread  out  to  dry  on  the  grass. 
Already  they  had  trampled  some  of  the  fine  clothes 
under  their  hard  hoofs,  when  Keben  all  at  once  ceased 
singing.  Dishevelled,  black  with  fury,  she  flung  herself 
at  the  heads  of  the  creatures.  "  Back,  dirty  beasts ! " 
cried  she ;  and  brandishing  her  heavy  wooden  racket, 
she  struck  them  so  violently  that  she  broke  the  horn  of 
one  of  them.     But  on  they  went,  in  their  quiet,  gentle 

*  "  Bim  baon,  the  bells  ! 
He  died,  J<5gou, 
From  eating  too  much  black  pudding !  " 


THE   CROSS   OF    KEBEN 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      219 

way,  taking  no  notice  whatever  of  her.  Then  the  rage 
of  Keb^n  fell  on  the  corpse.  She  clung  to  the  cart  at 
the  risk  of  being  knocked  down,  and,  at  each  turn  of  the 
wheels,  mad,  fierce  words,  curses  never  to  be  forgiven, 
came  pouring  from  her  lips — 

"  Go,  carrion  !  Go  to  the  charnel-house,  where  the 
body  of  your  mother,  the  wolf,  lies  rotting !  You  ought 
to  be  satisfied,  scourge  of  families  that  you  are  !  .  .  . 
Thanks  to  you,  the  best  linen  of  the  neighbourhood  is  in 
rags.  Laugh !  worker  of  evil,  knave  of  knaves !  dangerous 
even  in  death  !  .  .  .  Ha,  ha  !  And  to  think  that  there 
are  fools  who  are  mourning  for  you !  .  .  .  As  for  me, 
here  is  my  farewell !  " 

Horrible  profanation !  As  she  spoke,  she  struck  him 
on  the  face.  But  it  was  her  last  action.  The  earth 
at  the  same  moment  opened  its  jaws  and  swallowed 
her  alive. 

After  about  three  hours'  journey  the  bell  ceased.  The 
oxen  stopped  ;  they  were  in  the  midst  of  the  forest,  on 
the  western  side  of  the  mountain.  A  grave  was  soon 
dug,  but  when  they  tried  to  put  the  body  of  the  saint 
into  it,  the  united  efforts  of  twenty  men  were  powerless 
to  lift  him. 

"  Perhaps  he  doesn't  wish  to  be  buried,"  ventured 
some  one  ;  "  let  us  leave  him  as  he  is,  and  see  what 
happens." 

Then  occurred  the  most  curious  thing.  In  the  space 
of  a  single  night  the  body  turned  to  stone,  became  one 
with  the  top  of  the  cart,  which  in  its  turn  was  trans- 
formed into  a  funeral  slab,  so  that  Ronan  lay  there  an 
eternal  figure  as  though  sculptured  in  granite.  The 
trees  around  had    likewise  become  stone  ;  they  soared 


J220  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

upward  with  all  the  delicate  grace  of  pillars,  interlacing 
their  branches  on  high  in  the  form  of  a  roof.  Such, 
according  to  the  legend,  was  the  design  of  the  first 
church  of  Locronan  ;  and  of  the  tomb,  which  you  may 
still  see  in  the  chapel  of  the  P^nity. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      221 


CHAPTER  II 

IF  ever  you  visit  Locronan,  be  sure  to  approach  it  from 
the  "  old  side."  The  ascent  at  first  is  not  attractive, 
being  rather  a  ravine,  or  torrent-bed,  than  a  road.  But 
as  you  near  the  summit  you  will  find  that  the  track 
widens,  grows  smoother,  assumes  once  more  its  ancient 
aspect  of  a  royal  road.  Shut  in  on  the  west  by  a  rising 
in  the  ground,  to  the  south  and  north  the  prospect  opens 
little  by  little.  Behind  lie  the  huge  blue  billows  of  the 
country  of  Quimper  ;  to  the  right  the  sacred  mountain 
rises  toward  the  sky,  its  great  hump  scored  with  deep 
wrinkles,  where  sprays  of  broom  make  one  think  of 
yellow  flames  running  over  the  soil.  To  the  left  a 
green  country — luminous  green,  yellow-green — stretches 
in  undulating  verdure  away  to  the  ocean.  Pine  trees 
border  the  road,  but  do  not  hide  the  view,  which  smiles 
back  at  one  from  between  the  bare  trunks  ;  while  over- 
head sounds  the  aerial  song  of  their  crested  tops.  And 
in  no  other  part  of  Brittany  does  one  breathe  so  freely 
what  the  poet  calls — 

"  L'ivresse  de  I'espace,  et  du  vent  intrepide.  ..." 

The  wind  flies  with  unwearying  wing  over  this  high 
ground.  You  are,  so  to  speak,  face  to  face  with  the 
great  Atlantic,  and  he  blows  with  his  rough  salt  breath 
full  in  your  face,  reddening  your  skin  with  his  fierce 


THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

kisses.  The  noise  of  the  waves  sounds  so  distinct  that 
you  seem  to  be  standing  on  the  top  of  the  beach,  and 
almost  expect  a  splash  of  foam  to  wet  your  legs.  But 
no !  from  the  depths  that  yawn  in  front  a  clock-tower 
rises,  a  clock-tower  deprived  of  its  steeple  ;  an  enormous 
square  tower,  with  long,  narrow  openings,  from  whence 
fly,  not  sea-gulls,  but  crows.  Lower  down  is  the  church, 
sinking  with  age  beneath  its  high  roof;  and  near  it  is 
the  graveyard,  a  fold  of  the  mountain  closed  in  by 
ruinous  walls,  and  thickly  covered  in  grass.  A  rapid, 
winding  descent,  almost  a  street,  with  the  remains  of 
ancient  paving.  Once,  years  ago,  in  some  prosperous 
age  that  is  now  but  a  sad  memory,  it  was  by  this  road 
that  the  diligence  from  Quimper  to  Brest  entered 
Locronan,  with  tumult  of  chains  and  of  bells,  scatter- 
ing movement,  cheerfulness,  life  on  the  way.  Women 
with  babies  in  their  arms  ran  to  the  doors  of  the  little 
low  houses,  which,  even  to-day,  all  bear  over  the  lintels 
the  date  and  name  of  the  ancestor  who  built  them. 
Even  the  men  themselves,  weavers  for  the  most  part, 
would  rise  on  the  pedals  of  their  looms,  and  through  the 
open  windows  greet  the  postilion  with  a  joke,  the 
passengers  with  a  good  wish  for  the  journey.  And  now, 
alas !  of  all  this  life  there  remains  but  a  mournful  re- 
membrance. The  railways  have  killed  the  coaches,  as 
machinery  has  destroyed  hand  labour.  Of  the  weavers 
there  are  perhaps  half  a  dozen,  who  more  often  than  not 
are  out  of  work.  At  the  beginning  of  the  century  there 
were  some  hundred  and  fifty,  who  supplied  all  the  ports 
of  Cornouailles  with  sailcloth.  From  morning  to  night 
there  sounded,  according  to  an  inhabitant,  "  the  lively 
sound  of  the  shuttle." 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE  MOUNTAIN      223 

People  will  tell  you  that  it  was  Saint  Ronan  who 
invented  this  industry  (no  doubt  in  the  intervals  between 
his  walks),  and  that  he  taught  the  Penn-tiern,  his  com- 
panion in  prayer.  Before  his  days  the  fishers  used  to 
hang  skins  of  beasts  to  the  masts  of  their  ships.  Ronan 
first  planted  the  flax,  and  showed  them  the  art  of 
weaving  the  fibre,  so  that  a  stream  of  riches  and  plenty 
flowed  through  the  land.  The  wealth  of  the  men  of 
Locronan  became  as  famous  as  that  of  the  shipowners 
of  Penmarc'h.  Speaking  remains  of  this  may  be  seen 
in  the  beautifully  sculptured  gables  and  the  great  solid 
house-fronts  that  surround  the  square.  They  are  really 
grand  houses,  these,  some  in  fine  Renaissance.  Though 
shorn  of  their  ancient  splendour,  they  still  have  an  aristo- 
cratic appearance,  preserving  even  in  their  decay  an  air 
of  nobility  and  gravity,  so  that  the  humble  town  has 
something  majestic  and  imposing  about  it.  Nothing 
common  or  mean,  rather  the  sad,  solitary  state  of  a 
beautiful  ruin.  One  feels  the  melancholy  while  passing 
through  the  little  streets,  that  wind  in  and  out  among 
the  houses  as  they  climb  up  towards  the  country,  or 
plunge  precipitously  down  into  the  depths  of  the  suburb 
of  Kelou-Mad  (Good  News).  Here  there  is  little  to  be 
seen  but  falling  walls,  scattered  ruins  covering  the  waste 
gardens  for  quite  a  long  distance.  Everything  reminds 
one  of  a  city  crumbling  stone  by  stone,  never  to  rise 
again.  Even  the  inhabitants  leave  it  and  emigrate  day 
by  day,  as  though  some  fate  lay  over  it,  some  curse 
threatened  thirteen  hundred  years  ago  by  the  Hermit 
of  the  Mountain. 

But  no,  the  spirit  of  Ronan  has  never  abandoned  his 
town.     On  the  contrary,  he  is  still  its  good  genius.     It 


224  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

is  thanks  to  him  that  now  and  again,  at  long,  regular 
intervals,  the  old  place  recovers  some  slight  semblance 
of  life  and  cheerfulness.  Once  in  seven  years,  just  like 
those  dead  cities  of  which  one  sometimes  hears  in  story, 
Locronan  wakes  up  to  find  its  empty  spaces  filled  by  a 
crowd  of  pilgrims.  For  a  week  it  seems  as  though  the 
gayest  period  of  its  history  had  returned.  And  it  is  the 
Tromenie  that  performs  this  miracle. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN     225 


CHAPTER  HI 

TROMENIE  is  a  corruption  of  Tro-Minihy,  and 
signifies  "  Tour  of  the  Refuge."  In  the  ancient 
church  of  Brittany,  these  refuges,  these  Minihys,  were 
sacred  circles  of  one,  two,  three,  or  more  leagues 
surrounding  the  monasteries,  and  enjoying  valuable 
privileges.  That  which  belonged  to  the  monastery 
of  Locronan  covered  a  vast  area,  encroaching  on 
four  parishes :  Locronan,  Qu^mdndven,  Plogonnec,  and 
Plounevez-Porzay.  The  pilgrimage  of  the  Tromenie 
consists  in  making  this  tour,  following  the  traditional 
line  that  has  not  varied  for  centuries.  The  mountain 
of  Locronan  seems  to  be  the  very  centre  of  the  festival, 
for  the  pilgrims  scarcely  leave  its  flank,  and  its  enor- 
mous mass  entirely  shuts  out  all  the  view.  Therefore, 
the  faithful,  not  particularly  careful  about  a  derivation 
whose  meaning  they  have  lost,  connect  "Tromenie" 
with  "  Tro-ar-Menez,  which  they  translate  as  "  The 
Pardon  of  the  Mountain." 

As  to  the  road  they  traverse,  you  have  no  doubt 
guessed  already  that  it  is  identical  with  that  which 
Ronan  the  Walker  chose  during  his  lifetime.  A  strange 
track,  not  really  a  road  at  all,  a  kind  of  mystic  path, 
scarcely  worn,  only  marked  here  and  there  by  calvaries. 
Indeed,  it  is  not  everywhere  easy  to  find,  but  then,  in 
an  emergency,  the  saint  himself  often  undertakes  the 
office  of  guide. 


ne  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

A  poor  woman  told  me  the  following  story  : — 

She  had  vowed  to  make  the  pilgrimage  by  night, 
and  had  started  forth  at  dusk,  reckoning  on  the  moon 
to  light  her  on  her  way.  But  the  moon  never  came 
out.  Thick  clouds  rising  from  the  sea  spread  over  the 
sky.  The  old  woman  journeyed  on  nevertheless,  stumb- 
ling over  stones,  sometimes  knocking  herself  against  the 
banks.  In  the  midst  of  the  moorland  she  stopped  ;  she 
no  longer  had  any  idea  which  way  to  turn  in  the  dark- 
ness. A  great  terror  seized  upon  her.  She  was  on 
the  point  of  renouncing  her  vow,  when  suddenly  she 
heard  a  pitying  voice  that  gave  her  courage. 

"  Put  your  feet  where  I  put  mine ! "  said  the 
voice. 

She  tried  to  see  who  was  speaking,  but  in  vain.  She 
could  distinguish  nothing  save  two  bare  feet  of  glittering 
whiteness,  that  walked  before  her,  and  left  shining  im- 
pressions on  the  ground.  With  their  assistance  she  was 
thus  enabled  to  finish  her  pilgrimage. 

"  Be  merciful,"  she  cried,  joining  her  hands  ;  "tell  me 
your  name,  that  I  may  bless  it  to  the  hour  of  my 
death." 

"You  have  just  been  using  it  in  your  litanies," 
answered  the  voice. 

And  then  she  understood,  and  knelt  to  kiss  the  feet 
of  the  saint ;  but  he  had  disappeared. 

As  early  as  the  twelfth  century  the  Tromenie  took 
rank  among  the  great  religious  gatherings  of  Brittany. 
Whole  clans  came  to  join  in  it  from  the  most  distant 
places,  from  the  extreme  limits  of  Tr^gor,  from  the 
depths  of  the  country  of  Vannes.  Saint  Yves  took  part 
in  it,  accompanied  by  his  inseparable  Jehan  de  Kergoz. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      227 

Later,  the  very  dukes  thought  it  their  duty  to  show 
themselves  at  it.  The  report  had  already  spread  that 
it  was  needful  to  have  been  to  Locronan  in  order  to 
reach  heaven.  One  year  the  festival  was  invested  with 
peculiar  honour.  Splendid  noblemen,  in  rich  clothing, 
mounted  on  gorgeously  caparisoned  horses,  poured  out 
from  Plogonnec,  followed  by  a  multitude  of  men-at- 
arms,  and  preceded  by  a  company  of  trumpeters  blowing 
with  all  their  might.  They  were  escorting  a  litter,  from 
which,  just  as  the  procession  crossed  the  market-place, 
a  tiny  little  young  woman,  in  the  head-dress  of  the 
period,  descended.  She  was  well  bred  and  sprightly, 
with  very  soft  clear  eyes,  and  a  pretty  obstinate  Breton 
forehead.  As  soon  as  the  relics  had  passed  by  she 
came  forward  and  joined  a  group  of  farmers'  wives, 
who,  dressed  in  red  cloth  embroidered  with  gold  and 
silver,  formed  a  guard  of  honour  to  the  statue  of  Saint 
Anne.  Over  the  rough  pebbles  of  the  deep  lanes  and 
through  the  prickly  gorse  of  the  moorland,  she  walked 
uncomfortably  in  her  little  boots,  and  every  one  took 
her  for  some  rich  young  lady  of  the  town ;  but  on  she 
went,  brave  and  resolute,  never  uttering  a  word  of  com- 
plaint on  the  roughness  of  the  road.  Bending  over 
the  Book  of  Hours,  held  by  a  neighbour,  she  chanted 
the  canticle  in  unison  with  the  other  voices.  And  all  the 
length  of  the  Tromenie  she  sang;  you  would  have  thought 
some  sweet  nightingale  was  breathing  forth  its  song  from 
between  her  lips,  such  grace  and  beauty  did  she  give  to 
the  rude  syllables  of  the  Breton  verses.  The  lads  who 
carried  the  banners  were  continually  turning  their  heads 
to  look  at  her.  Afterwards  they  discovered  that  her 
name  was  the  "  Duchess  Anne,"  and  that  she  was  the 


228  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

wife  of  the  King  of  France.  Good,  dear  duchess  !  I 
have  often  asked  people  of  Tregor  about  you,  and  found 
that  for  them  you  are  nothing  but  a  symbol.  Yet  here 
in  Cornouailles  your  memory  still  lives,  almost  your 
person.  In  a  little  hut  beneath  the  beech  trees,  last 
vestige  of  the  forest  of  Nevet,  I  have  heard  the  sabotiers 
speak  of  you  as  though  they  had  actually  known  you. 
They  described  your  face,  downy  like  some  beautiful 
fruit,  praised  your  hair,  your  smile,  your  charming 
manner,  remembering  even  the  quality  of  your  voice. 
It  would  take  but  little  to  make  them  believe  that  they 
were  actually  present  at  that  Tromenie  in  which  you 
took  part.  After  that,  who  will  dare  to  doubt  the  magic 
influence  of  Ronan  ?  But  there  are  other  proofs  if 
needed  ! 

For  example,  that  fantastic  Tromenie  which  the 
saint  they  say  conducted  in  person.  Since  the  previous 
evening  a  tremendous  rain  had  been  falling,  and  the 
mountain  in  every  direction  was  worn  by  torrents.  The 
clergy  decided  that  the  procession  should  not  take 
place,  but  had  better  be  deferred  till  the  following 
Sunday.  This  must  have  offended  the  irritable  Saint 
Ronan,  who,  during  his  life,  had  taken  no  account  of 
the  weather  when  making  his  morning  and  evening 
tour.  Suddenly  the  bells  began  pealing,  an  unseen  choir 
sang  the  marching  hymn,  and  through  the  great  church 
door,  which  the  sacristan  swore  he  had  locked,  a  wave 
of  Tromdnieurs  came  flowing,  then  another,  and  many 
more,  an  interminable  number.  Nobody  knew  who  they 
were,  nor  whence  they  came.  They  had  yellow,  mouldy 
faces ;  their  clothes  were  of  a  quaint,  forgotten  shape, 
and  gave  out  a  strange,  musty  smell.   They  sang  without 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      229 

moving  their  lips,  and  their  voices  were  faint  and  far  away, 
as  though  they  came  from  the  depths  of  the  earth.  At 
their  head  walked  the  wonder-working  saint.  Over  his 
cloth  robe  he  had  donned  the  episcopal  vestments.  As 
he  walked,  the  ground  dried  before  him,  and  the  respect- 
ful rain  parted  on  either  hand.  The  great,  heavy 
banners  spread  forth,  carried  by  the  stiffened  arms  of 
mysterious  old  men,  with  athletic  shoulders,  and  the 
silk,  the  embroideries,  the  figures,  shone  bright  as  on  a 
sunny  day.  For  overhead  in  the  sky  there  was  a  hole 
in  the  clouds,  through  which  the  blue  appeared,  and  it 
moved  with  the  procession,  keeping  just  above  them 
like  a  canopy,  while  everywhere  else  rain  fell  in  torrents. 
.  .  .  Next  day,  when  they  looked  at  the  banners,  which 
had  returned  to  their  cases  of  their  own  accord,  they 
found  that  not  a  drop  of  rain  had  touched  them.  Saint 
Ronan  had  evidently  wished  to  give  his  clergy  and 
parishioners  a  good  lesson.  The  warning  was  taken, 
and,  since  that  day,  the  pilgrimage  of  the  Tromdnie  has 
never  failed  to  start  at  the  usual  hour,  on  the  proper 
day,  whatever  the  weather  may  be. 


230  THE   LAND  OF  PARDONS 


CHAPTER  IV 

GENERALLY  it  is  fine,  for  the  festival  begins  on 
the  second  Sunday  in  July,  the  pleasantest  part 
of  the  Breton  summer.  I  assisted  on  the  last  occasion, 
in  1893.  Very  early  in  the  morning  I  joined  the 
Ouimper  pilgrims,  and  started  by  train  from  Douarne- 
nez.  We  got  down  at  a  station  called  Guengat,  a  little 
lonely  house,  surrounded  by  moor  and  bog,  many  kilo- 
metres from  any  town  or  village.  There  was  only  one 
person  by  way  of  staff,  a  woman,  whose  chief  duty  con- 
sisted in  watching  a  few  trucks  go  by  now  and  again, 
and  in  listening  every  evening  to  the  distant  Angelus. 
A  narrow,  stony  track  led  to  a  country  road,  one  of 
those  delightful  little  Breton  roads,  which,  like  the  race 
itself,  go  wandering  about,  loitering  round  a  thousand 
corners,  allowing  themselves  to  be  guided  by  their 
fancies,  and  never  coming  to  any  conclusion.  We 
walked  through  luminous  shadow,  between  banks  draped 
with  a  profusion  of  plants,  pale  flowers,  long  fine 
grasses,  hanging  like  hair.  We  saw  nothing,  heard 
nothing,  save  the  moving  shadows  of  the  leaves  on  a 
pathway  spangled  with  sunbeams,  and  a  delicate  sound 
of  water  running  through  the  cress-beds  on  either  side 
of  the  way. 

Suddenly,  through   a   break,   appeared   the   sacred 
mountain,  its  rounded  summit  still  steaming  with  the 


rHK     IMIAIUIM    WAV 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN     231 

mists  of  the  morning.  Faint  silhouettes  of  pilgrims 
appeared  on  the  top,  and  along  the  edges  of  the  slopes. 
These  are  the  solitary  pilgrims,  the  most  devout  of  all 
it  is  said,  no  doubt  because  more  in  character  with  the 
earliest  tradition.  It  was  midnight  when  they  began 
their  tour  of  the  mountain.  Already  some  are  return- 
ing homeward,  their  faces  a  little  tired,  their  clothes 
damp  with  dew.  And  here  are  we,  by  the  first  calvary 
at  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  On  its  steps  women  are 
seated,  breakfasting  on  brown  bread  and  bacon.  As  I 
pass,  one  of  them  calls  out  to  me  : — 

"  It's  no  use  hurrying  ;  you  are  too  late.  The  saint 
is  no  longer  at  home." 

Directly  they  have  concluded  their  devotions,  our 
peasant  women  are  always  ready  for  a  joke. 

"Oh,  well,"  I  answer,  "then  I  shall  go  and  see 
Keb^n!" 

"Ah, you  will  be  sure  to  meet  Jiev ;  where  once  there 
was  one,  you  will  now  find  five  hundred." 

You  must  know  that  the  evil  repute  of  the  mistress 
of  Kerndvez  has  most  unjustly  descended  to  all  the 
women  of  the  district ;  it  has  come  down  like  a  grease- 
spot  through  the  centuries. 

"  Between  Locronan  and  Qudmen(5ven 
There  is  not  a  woman  who  is  not  a  Kdbcn.  .  .  ." 

says  a  proverb,  invented,  I  suppose,  by  some  gossip  of 
a  neighbouring  town,  when  the  prosperity  of  the  little 
industrial  centre  caused  jealousy  all  around.  The  old 
Celtic  exclusiveness  remained  strong  in  Brittany,  and 
rivalries  and  race  hatreds  long  existed  between  village 
and  village  in  all  their  cheerful  ferocity. 


232  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

I  can  still  hear  my  "  Cornouaillaises,"  laughing,  when 
I  am  high  up  the  road.  But  as  I  go  yet  higher,  I  seem 
to  enter  a  region  of  infinite  silence.  .  .  .  There  is  some- 
thing religious  in  the  very  air  one  breathes,  something 
that  always  enfolds  mountain-tops,  causing  our  ancient 
Aryan  forefathers  to  regard  them  as  dwelling-places  of 
the  Most  High.  The  breeze,  that  comes  in  slow,  soft 
puffs,  is  full  of  rare  perfume,  the  fine  scent  of  aromatic 
herbs  ;  and  the  groups  of  clouds  above  look  like  great 
kneeling  figures.  .  .  .  Then  the  sound  of  a  little  bell  is 
heard,  and  a  voice  singing  in  Breton  : — 

"  Passer-by,  give  alms ;  for  the  love  of  Saint  The- 


gonnec,  give 


In  the  depths  of  a  hut,  formed  like  that  of  Ronan, 
from  interwoven  branches,  and  covered  with  a  sheet  by 
way  of  roof,  a  man  is  crouching  on  a  stool — a  "  Glazik," 
in  a  new  waistcoat  embroidered  in  a  broad  yellow  pat- 
tern. Before  him  is  a  table,  decorated  like  an  altar,  and 
on  the  table  a  saint's  image,  black,  smoky — one  of  those 
rough  statues  peculiarly  dear  to  the  Armoricans,  because 
of  their  very  antiquity.  A  brass  plate,  half  full  of  sous,  is 
placed  before  the  "  Icon,"  to  receive  offerings.  It  is  one 
of  those  mysterious  toll-houses  that  stand  here  and 
there  along  the  route  of  the  Tromenie.  There  are  sixty 
or  seventy  of  these  huts  scattered  over  the  flank  of  the 
mountain.  The  four  parishes  whose  land  is  included  in 
the  ancient  "  Minihy,"  set  up  these  shrines  to  represent 
not  only  the  patron  saint  of  their  church,  but  also 
the  multitude  of  lesser  saints  worshipped  in  the  little 
chapels  of  their  district.  Close  at  hand  is  a  delegate, 
whose  duty  it  is  to  sing  a  long  rigmarole,  enumerating 
the  virtues  and  miracles  of  the  saint,  the   marvellous 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      233 

efficacy  of  his  fountain,  sometimes  to  present  fragments 
of  his  relics  to  be  kissed  by  pilgrims.  The  proverb, 
"  Each  one  preaches  his  particular  saint,"  never  had  a 
more  direct  and  literal  fulfilment.  Thus  the  cult  of 
Saint  Ronan  becomes  a  source  of  profit  to  all  the 
worshipping  places  of  the  neighbourhood.  But  I  should 
not  like  you  to  look  at  this  ancient  custom  simply  from 
its  money-making  point  of  view.  A  belief  has  spread 
through  the  whole  peninsula  that  the  saints  of  each 
canton  ought  to  visit  each  other  on  the  days  of  their 
respective  pardons.  If  they  are  not  taken,  it  is  said 
that  they  will  go  of  their  own  accord.  Fishermen  of 
the  Tregor  coast  have  assured  me  that  they  have  seen 
Our  Lady  of  Port-Blanc  going  at  night  by  sea  to  the 
great  votive  festival  of  Our  Lady  of  La  Clart6.  So  we 
need  not  be  surprised  if  the  statues  of  Urlou,  Corentin, 
Thujen,  Thegonnec,  and  many  other  wonder-workers, 
old-established  neighbours  of  Ronan,  leave  their  chapels 
on  the  day  of  the  Tromenie,  and  come  to  salute  him  on 
the  borders  of  his  own  territory !  It  would  be  cruel  to 
grudge  them  any  little  alms  they  receive  in  addition  ; 
they  are  so  poor,  the  good  old  saints,  and  their  little 
rustic  chapels  are  so  miserable  !  .  .  . 

Just  at  this  spot  the  legendary  path  crosses  the  road. 
At  one  of  the  corners  of  intersection  there  rises  a  rude 
cross,  cut  all  in  one  piece,  made  perhaps  from  some 
mmhir,  or  more  probably  from  one  of  those  blocks 
of  granite  called  "  Lec'h,"  which,  during  the  first  ages 
of  Christianity,  served  to  mark  sepulchres.  It  is  the 
tomb  of  K^b^n.  .  .  .  The  grass  round  about  is  thin 
and  scorched  ;  no  flowers  ever  flourish  there,  even  the 
brambles  shrink  away  from  it ;  and  people  follow  their 


234  THE  LAND   OF  PARDONS 

example,  crossing  themselves  as  they  hurry  past,  for 
who  can  tell  if,  in  spite  of  the  heavy  monolith  that 
weighs  her  down,  the  rebellious  spirit  shut  up  there 
may  not  suddenly  burst  forth  like  a  volcano  ?  How- 
ever, I  saw  one  old  woman  kneel  before  it,  knowing 
what  she  was  about,  too,  for  to  her  daughter,  who  re- 
monstrated, she  answered,  "  You  are  still  young  ;  when 
you  have  been  longer  in  the  school  of  life,  you  will 
have  learned  pity  !  " 

Tromenieurs  are  passing  every  moment,  grave, 
bare-headed,  hat  in  one  hand,  chaplet  in  the  other. 
They  walk  silently,  without  exchanging  a  single  word  ; 
the  Trom^nie  is  a  silent  Pardon,  **  Un  Pardon  Muet  I " 
From  their  fixed,  absent  gaze,  it  is  easy  to  guess 
that  each  soul  is  absorbed  in  silent  prayer  that 
nothing  can  disturb  ;  not  even  the  splendid  view, 
which,  seen  from  this  height,  seems  to  reach  away 
into  the  distance  like  the  moving,  tinted  rays  of  some 
gorgeous  fan.  They  walk  alone  or  in  groups.  Now  a 
family  with  all  its  members,  now  a  whole  village,  a  clan 
of  labourers  journeying  en  masse,  men,  women,  chil- 
dren, and  dogs.  The  profiles  stand  out  for  a  moment 
with  singular  clearness  against  the  delicate  blue  of  the 
sky,  then  vanish  into  the  folds  of  the  mountain. 

One  of  the  principal  sections  of  the  route  is  that 
which  leads  from  the  tomb  of  Keb^n  to  the  Stone 
Mare.  The  track  passes  between  gorse  bushes,  crosses 
some  abandoned  quarries,  skirts  a  field  or  two  of  "  black 
corn,"  and  finally  loses  itself  in  a  moor — a  huge  stretch 
of  dry  grass,  shining  in  the  sun  like  a  great  mirror,  over 
which  clouds  cast  broad  shadows.  In  the  midst  of  this 
space  crouches  the  granite  monster,  and  it  really  has 


THE   PARDON  OF  THE  MOUNTAIN     235 

the  strange  colossal  form  of  some  prehistoric  animal. 
The  cult  of  which  it  is  the  object  certainly  goes  back  to 
a  time  long  before  the  Christian  era.  Every  one  knows 
how  deeply  Celtic  mythology  was  tinged  with  naturalism. 
Every  object  of  nature  seemed  divine  to  the  Celt,  trees 
springs  and  rocks.  These  ancient  ideas  still  live  in  the 
heart  of  the  Breton  of  to-day.  Christianity  has  either 
based  itself  upon  them,  or  incorporated  them  in  its  teach- 
ing. Not  being  able  to  destroy  them,  it  has  absorbed 
them,  and  it  is  not  needful  to  dig  very  deep  in  the 
soul  of  the  race  to  find  the  original  foundation.  As  for 
this  stone  of  Ronan,  it  has  long  been  associated  with 
fruit-giving  powers.  It  is  not  very  many  years  since 
young  wives  would  come  hither  during  the  first  months 
of  marriage  to  rub  themselves  against  it,  and  childless 
women  would  sleep  upon  it  for  three  consecutive  nights, 
in  the  hope  of  at  last  knowing  the  joys  of  motherhood. 
In  these  days  they  are  supposed  to  have  given  up  these 
practices,  but  I  doubt  if  they  are  as  entirely  dead  as 
they  seem  to  be. 

The  pilgrims  of  the  Tromenie  generally  content 
themselves  with  making  a  tour  of  the  sacred  stone. 
But  the  more  religious,  and  people  suffering  from  fevers 
and  nervous  maladies,  seat  themselves  in  a  hollow  of 
the  rock — a  sort  of  natural  chair,  sculptured  by  the 
rain,  and  used  by  Ronan  during  his  hours  of  rest  and 
meditation.  From  it  he  enjoyed  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful of  panoramas.  The  old  hermits  of  the  Armorican 
legend  were  certainly  no  morose  ascetics,  with  a  contempt 
for  the  beauties  of  nature.  Rather  do  they  make  us 
think  of  the  "  Richis  "  of  India.  The  austerities  of  the 
anchorite   existence    never   destroy   either   delicacy   of 


236  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

feeling   or  freshness   of  imagination.     If  they   sought 
solitude,  no  doubt  it  was  in  order  to  approach  nearer 
to  God,  but  also  to  enter  into  closer  and  more  direct 
contact  with  "the  shy  beauty  of  the  world.     They  were 
poets  as  well  as  saints.     The  magic  of  nature  bewitched 
them.     Legend  shows  them  to  us,  journeying  for  days 
and  months    before  finally  choosing   a   dwelling-place. 
Sometimes  we  hear  that  a  stone  rolled  before  them  ; 
that  is  to  say,  some  higher  instinct  guided  them.     They 
would  wait  before  building  their  cell  till  they  came  across 
a  country  that  realized  their  dreams.     Some  required 
widespread  horizon,  others  preferred  the  mystery  of  the 
valleys,  whispering  with  rustling  waters  and  shivering 
leaves.     They  nearly  always  arranged    so   as   to  have 
an  opening  toward  the  sea.     In  fact,  a  great  many  of 
their  shrines  are  situated  on  the  coast,  the  "Armor." 
They  loved  the  sea  for  its  own  sake,  just  because  it 
was  the  sea,  the  only  thing  in  the  world,  perhaps,  of 
which  one  never  tires,  and  also  because  it  was  as  the 
visible  face  of  that  eternity  that  possessed  their  souls. 
Finally,  perhaps,  because  its  far-off  waves  bathed  their 
native   land,  the   great  cloudy  isles   of  Ireland   or  of 
Great  Britain,  whence  the   Saxon  scourge  had   driven 
them.     On  home-sick  evenings,  how  often  must  their 
thoughts    have    traversed    the   tossing   billowy   waves 
towards   the  beloved    monasteries   of    lona,    Clonard, 
Laniltud,  Bangor.  .  .  . 

Before  the  eyes  of  Ronan,  the  Bay  of  Douarnenez 
— or,  to  speak  as  a  Breton,  The  Bay,  for  in  their  opinion 
it  is  the  only  one — spread  its  lovely  curve,  while  the  fine 
sand  on  the  shore  sparkled,  and  the  great  promontories 
rose  one  after  another,  bold  and  rugged,  dying  away  into 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      237 

the  distant  waters.  It  is  easy  to  understand  the  affec- 
tion the  saint  acquired  for  this  slope  of  the  mountain. 
There  is  not  a  spot  in  all  Brittany  whence  the  eye  may 
roam  more  freely  over  an  eternal,  yet  changing  landscape. 
I  reached  the  town  in  the  company  of  a  tottering, 
feeble  old  grandmother,  who  leaned  one  hand  on  her 
pilgrim  staff,  and  the  other  on  the  shoulder  of  a  boy  of 
twelve  or  thirteen  years,  her  great-grandson.  The  child 
shuffled  along  in  clothes  much  too  large  for  him,  clothes 
that  had  descended,  almost  new,  from  some  elder  brother 
lost  at  sea.  He  had  a  funny  little  manner,  very  wide- 
awake, with  something  of  an  old  man  in  his  expression, 
and  a  curiously  grave  way  of  looking  at  one,  that  was 
full  of  far-away  and  premature  sadness. 

"  He  is  just  about  to  start  on  a  long  voyage,"  the 
good  woman  explained,  "  so  I  have  been  to  present  him 
to  Saint  Ronan.  This  is  the  ninth  Tromenie  I  have 
been  to !  Yes,  this  path  has  seen  me  pass  nine  times^ 
with  my  husband,  my  sons,  and  the  sons  of  my  sons. 
I  have  mourned  every  one  of  them,  and  have  buried 
none.  They  are  all  in  the  cemetery  that  has  no  cross. 
This  is  the  last  remaining  to  me.  I  have  a  fancy  that 
the  sea  will  take  him  like  the  others.  It  seems  very 
hard,  but  every  one  must  work  out  his  fate."  .  .  . 

The  little  lad  said  nothing,  only  smiled  vaguely  at 
the  booths  set  up  in  the  square  ;  and  the  sea,  at  the 
foot  of  the  hills,  lay  green  and  glittering  with  gold, 
fascinating,  singing  like  an  exquisite  siren,  a  catcher 
of  men. 

From  without,  the  church  of  Locronan,  chiefly  built 
in  the  fifteenth  century,  has  all  the  grandeur  and  size 
of  a  cathedral.     Within,  it  is  very  curious.     It  is  entered 


238  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

through  a  vast  porch,  beneath  a  wide,  round  archway. 
From  the  very  sill  one  is  conscious  of  age,  decay,  and 
height — of  solitary,  rude  height.  Great  shadows  gather 
in  the  vaulting,  creep  along  the  walls.  It  suggests  to 
the  mind  some  dark  wood,  pierced  here  and  there  by 
green  shafts  of  light.  The  awe  of  sacred  forests  per- 
vades it.  The  mossy  pillars  look  like  those  petrified 
trees  of  which  the  legend  tells,  or  of  the  church  of  some 
drowned  city,  Tolente,  Ker-Is,  or  Occismor ;  so  do  the 
walls  breathe  out  moisture  ;  so  is  the  light  which  bathes 
them,  strange,  ghostly,  and  dusk. 

The  chapel  of  the  Penity,  beside  the  nave,  shines 
with  a  brighter  glow.  There,  on  a  slab  of  Kersanton,  is 
the  effigy  of  the  anchorite,  the  roughly  sculptured  sacer- 
dotal figure  of  Ronan.  The  features,  though  rude,  are 
beautifully  serene  ;  his  great,  interrupted  dreams  still 
melting  in  his  fixed  eyes.  One  of  his  hands  holds  a 
pastoral  staff,  the  other  a  Book  of  Hours.  A  priest  is 
officiating  at  the  altar.  He  blesses  the  congregation, 
and  the  procession  round  the  tomb  begins.  The  pilgrims 
pass  in  a  close  line,  more  women  than  men,  and  most 
of  them  from  the  region  of  Douarnenez. 

They  are  fresh,  rosy,  like  mother-o'-pearl,  with  grey 
eyes,  the  blue-grey  of  the  flax-blossom.  The  cap  that 
surrounds  the  face  gives  an  air  of  sincerity  and 
mysticism.  One  by  one  they  touch  with  their  fore- 
heads the  shuttle-shaped  reliquary  that  is  held  by  a 
deacon,  then,  turning  toward  the  stone  hermit,  press 
their  fresh  lips,  red  with  the  mountain  breezes,  on  his 
cheek. 

And  this  is  Ronan's  true  revenge  ! 

According  to  Celtic  belief,  woman   is  an  exquisite 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN     239 

and  perverse  sorceress,  endowed  with  irresistible  super- 
natural powers,  able  to  take  entire  possession  of  man, 
without  in  any  way  giving  over  control  of  herself.  Our 
popular  poets  have  always  sung  about  her  with  sad 
resignation,  as  their  tragic  love-songs  testify.  The  saints 
ever  feared  this  siren,  considering  her  an  insurmountable 
barrier  between  themselves  and  holiness.  Efflam,  for 
instance,  constrained  by  his  father  to  chose  a  wife,  was  so 
terrified  by  the  beauty  of  Enora  that  he  fainted  on  the 
floor  of  the  bridal  chamber.  Without  the  aid  of  an 
angel,  he  would  never  have  had  the  courage  to  flee. 
Enora  having  followed  him  across  the  perilous  deep, 
he  refused  to  listen  to  her  voice,  and  had  a  cell  built 
for  her  on  the  other  side  of  the  hill.  Envel  showed 
himself  no  less  pitiless  towards  his  sister  J  una;  never 
once  did  he  visit  her  in  her  cell,  though  they  were 
only  separated  by  the  breadth  of  the  valley.  He 
only  came  to  know  of  her  death  because  the  bell 
she  used  to  ring  at  the  hour  of  prayer  ceased 
sounding. 

Despised,  anathematized  by  the  saints,  it  was  but 
natural  that  women  resented  such  treatment.  More 
than  once  we  hear  of  naughty  tricks  they  played,  and 
we  have  seen  with  what  hatred  Kcb^n  pursued  Ronan. 
Indeed,  I  have  not  told  the  whole  story.  One  legend  says 
that  she  publicly  accused  him  of  wishing  to  seduce  her. 
We  know  how  she  treated  him  after  his  death,  and  it  is 
said  that  the  mark  of  the  dirty  racket  reappears  each 
Tromenie,  on  the  left  cheek  of  the  granite  corpse.  This 
it  is,  this  ineffaceable  injury,  that  the  girls  of  Cornouailles 
come  every  seven  years  to  try  and  wipe  away  with  their 
kisses. 


240  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

And  now  the  bells  are  ringing.  A  death-knell 
sounds  through  the  church,  with  slow,  sad  strokes,  a 
choir  of  priests  entones  the  prayers  for  the  dead.  The 
Tromenie  is  not  only  a  pilgrimage  for  the  living  ;  the 
dead  who  did  not  succeed  in  accomplishing  it  during 
life,  rise  up  from  the  Land  of  Souls  and  come  to  take 
part  in  it.  Be  sure,  that  among  the  people  of  flesh  and 
blood  kneeling  on  those  stones,  there  are  scattered  a 
host  of  shadows,  risen  from  the  churchyards.  A  cold 
breath  that  makes  one  shudder,  a  musty  scent  that 
suddenly  fills  the  atmosphere,  and  other  suggestive 
signs,  announce  the  approach  of  the  dead,  the  mysterious 
coming  of  the  "  Anaon."  In  the  porch,  a  woman  of 
Plogonnec  tells  me  how,  last  Tromenie,  as  she  was 
praying,  she  felt  cold  fingers  tickling  the  back  of  her 
neck.  Looking  round,  she  almost  fainted  with  surprise 
at  finding  herself  face  to  face  with  her  husband,  whom 
she  had  buried  the  year  before,  and  for  whose  soul  she 
had  just  been  saying  a  De  Profundis.  "  I  was  going 
to  speak  to  him ;  but  no  doubt  he  saw  that  in  my 
eyes,  for  he  suddenly  vanished." 

The  best  place  to  enjoy  the  sight  of  the  High  Mass 
is  from  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  to  the  great  portal. 
Through  the  open  doors  one  can  look  right  up  the 
nave  to  the  choir,  where,  behind  a  forest  of  high  pillars, 
shines,  as  it  were,  a  dazzling  glade,  bathed  in  golden 
sunshine.  A  wave  of  rough  heads,  clothed  in  the  long 
hair  of  the  Celt,  rises  in  front.  Behind  come  the 
women,  prostrate  in  all  kinds  of  attitudes.  The  wings 
of  their  caps  tremble  as  the  light  falls  upon  them 
through  the  painted  windows,  dyeing  them  all  manner 
of  delicate  shades.     They  look  like  a  flight  of  sea-birds 


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Lu   >K1N(;    ROUND,    SHK    ALMOST    FAINTKO    WITH    SURPRISE    AT 

KINOINO    HKRSELK    FACE   TO    FACE   WITH    HER    HUSBAND 

WHOM   SHE   HAD   BURIED    THE  YEAR    BEFORE 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN     241 

caught  in  the  church.  And  the  singing  drags  on  like 
a  sound  of  weeping,  singing  for  all  the  world  resembling 
that  of  some  ancient  pagan  ritual,  very  solemn,  and 
very  sweet. 

From  twelve  o'clock  to  two  there  is  an  interlude. 
It  is  an  exhausting  Pardon,  the  Tromenie,  one  where 
neither  fatigue  nor  trouble  is  spared.  Not  only  does  it 
give  indulgences,  but  a  splendid  appetite.  The  strong 
mountain  air,  sharpened  by  the  sea-breeze  and  some 
five  leagues  of  ravine  and  moor,  would  expand  the 
stomach  of  even  a  townsman,  still  more  that  of  a 
peasant.  Besides,  there  are  no  religious  festivals  in 
Brittany  but  have  some  element  of  merry-making. 
Therefore,  while  the  church  is  empty,  the  inns  are  full. 
Find  a  place  if  you  can  !  Some  settle  down  outside  the 
town,  in  the  shadow  of  a  bit  of  wall,  one  of  the  ivy-clad 
ruins  that  scatter  the  country  far  and  wide.  The  one 
hotel  of  the  place,  whose  old  front  seems  hopelessly 
mourning  the  death  of  the  diligences,  has  put  out  its 
white  awning  as  though  for  a  wedding.  There  I 
lunch  with  the  more-important  Tromenieurs,  owners  of 
fisheries,  or  rich  farmers;  people  of  Ploneis,  Tr^boul, 
Kerlaz,  and  Ploare.  Little  breezes  flutter  the  cloths, 
and  set  all  the  loose  white  things  flapping  around  us. 
The  crowd  in  the  square  goes  and  comes,  growing 
more  excited  with  its  own  noise  as  the  minutes 
succeed  each  other,  and  a  pious  gladness  begins  to 
thrill  the  air.  One  thing  is  very  noticeable,  in  the 
whole  huge  human  buzzing  there  is  not  a  single 
beggar's  voice,  not  one  of  those  miserable  lamentations 
that  haunt  the  ear  at  all  the  other  Pardons  of  Brittany. 
The  exhibitors  of  wounds,  real  or  pretended,  are  seen 

R 


242  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

neither  in  the  town  of  Locronan,  nor  on  any  portion  of 
the  pilgrimage  route.  The  Tromenie  is  arranged  so  as 
to  discourage  the  infirm,  the  cripples,  the  deformed,  the 
lame  of  all  kinds.  Before  all  things,  it  is  the  festival 
of  the  nimble. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      243 


CHAPTER  V 

YEARS  ago,  the  honour  of  carrying  the  great  banners 
in  the  procession  of  Saint  Ronan  was  fought  for 
with  fists  and  penn-bas.  Happy  the  parish  whose 
champion  won ;  for  seven  years  it  was  sure  of  un- 
equalled prosperity.  For  seven  years,  only  boys, 
bread-earners,  strong  and  useful,  would  be  born  there  ; 
the  floors  of  the  granaries  would  break  beneath  the 
weight  of  each  harvest ;  the  boats  would  return  each 
evening  laden  with  marvellous  fish ;  and  all  hearts 
would  flourish  exempt  from  care,  as  in  an  earthly  para- 
dise. So  the  struggle  for  the  banners  grew  more  than 
once  into  a  bloody  struggle .  .  .  chests  were  crushed,  heads 
were  broken.  At  last  the  clergy  judged  it  necessary  to 
send  for  assistance  to  have  it  stopped.  But  the  presence 
of  the  soldiers,  far  from  quieting  the  people,  exasperated 
them.  Every  one  took  it  for  an  attempt  to  control 
their  liberties,  and  more,  as  an  insult  to  the  sacred 
festival.  Why  did  not  people  leave  them  to  arrange 
things  among  themselves }  Indeed,  what  business 
had  these  intruders,  these  "  Gallots,"  at  the  glorifica- 
tion of  Ronan  ? 

The  Bretons  worship  their  saints  with  a  jealous 
worship.  A  wave  of  revolt  passed  through  these  excited 
brains  ;  a  hue  and  cry  was  raised  against  "  Les  enfants 
de  Marie  Robin,"  as  the  gendarmes  are  called  in  this  part 


244  THE  LAND   OF  PARDONS 

of  the  country.  At  the  Tromenie  held  on  July  the 
14th,  1747,  a  regular  riot  broke  out,  of  which  the  official 
account  in  the  public  archives  has  preserved  the  re- 
membrance. The  gendarmes  were  pursued  with  showers 
of  stones,  and  could  only  save  themselves  by  the  speed 
of  their  horses. 

"  Dao !  .  .  .  Dao !  .  .  ."  yelled  the  pilgrims ;  which 
the  Sire  Dugas  translates  in  his  soldierly  style  as,  "  Let 
us  charge  them  again  !  let  us  plunder  them !  " 

Nowadays,  things  are  managed  in  a  much  more 
orderly  fashion.  The  honour  of  bearing  the  banner  is 
still  a  party  matter,  only  it  is  paid  for,  going  to  the 
highest  bidder.  It  is  less  democratic,  no  doubt ;  but 
fewer  heads  are  broken,  fewer  vests  left  in  rags.  Devotion 
has  lost  scarcely  anything,  and  the  treasury  of  the  saint 
has  gained  money,  which,  supplemented  by  the  State, 
will  perhaps  help  to  repair  the  church,  or  even  replace 
the  spire  that  once  crowned  the  tower. 

But  hark !  .  .  .  the  old  parish  clock  is  striking.  The 
bells  have  only  been  awaiting  its  sound  to  break  forth 
all  together,  and  merry  carillons  answer  from  distant 
churches  and  chapels,  hidden  under  the  woodland 
cover. 

From  out  the  porch  come  heavy  old  banners, 
with  enormous  staves,  round  which  the  fingers  of  the 
bearers  are  straining.  They  bend  to  issue  from  the 
arch,  sweeping  the  ground  with  their  fringes,  then,  raised 
with  difficulty,  fill  out  suddenly,  like  widespread  sails. 
A  shiver  runs  through  the  old  silks ;  the  sunshine 
sparkles  on  their  golden  spangles.  The  holy  saints  upon 
them  seem  to  blink  their  eyes  in  the  rays  of  the  blessed 
sun,  which  they  have  not  faced  for  seven  years.  Gradually 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   MOUNTAIN      245 

the  procession  forms.  At  the  head  march  the  gold  and 
silver  crosses,  furnished  withilittle  bells  that  keep  tinkling, 
tinkling  perpetually,  just  as  Ronan's  little  iron  bell  did 
once.  It  is  there  now,  the  magical  bell,  but  dumb  and 
motionless,  resting  on  a  velvet  cushion,  preceded  by  a 
figure  of  the  saint.  How  they  have  smothered  him  in 
episcopal  ornaments,  for  which,  during  life,  he  showed 
such  disdain !  I  think  he  would  have  looked  grander 
and  more  natural  in  his  dark  woollen  robe,  the  colour  of 
a  beast's  skin,  the  front  half  of  his  head  shaven,  in 
accordance  with  the  canon  of  the  Celtic  tonsure,  and  in 
his  hands,  in  place  of  a  crosier,  the  staff  of  his  unend- 
ing pilgrimage.  A  long  long  line  of  saints  follow.  Then 
come  the  reliquaries,  little  gilt  Noah's  Arks,  carried  on 
rolling  shoulders.  Last  of  all  appear  the  priests,  and 
following  on  their  heels,  rough  and  tumbled,  surges  the 
crowd. 

The  drums  and  fifes  give  the  signal  to  start ;  and 
under  the  sun,  which  darts  its  rays  between  the  grey 
fronts  of  the  houses,  transfiguring  them  joyfully,  the 
pageant  unfolds  its  splendid,  silent  throng.  The  sky, 
the  mountain,  the  sea,  shine  with  the  same  fair  light, 
broken  only  here  and  there  at  rare  intervals  by  great 
sheets  of  purple  shadow  falling  from  the  moving  clouds. 
Everything  in  this  fluid  atmosphere  seems,  in  a  measure, 
molten.  Nothing  bounds  the  view  ;  the  distance  fades 
and  dissolves  away. 

But  already  we  are  plunging  into  the  little  lanes. 
We  have  left  behind  us  the  high-road,  with  its  dust  and 
its  glare ;  the  rustic  shrines,  which  the  clergy  in  passing 
salute  with  a  hymn  ;  we  have  turned  our  backs  to  the 
mountain,  and  to  the  light.  .  .  .  The  earth  is  more  and 


246  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

more  hollowed  out  beneath  our  footsteps.  It  is  almost 
a  sepulchral  way,  paved  with  granite  bones.  On  either 
side  high  banks  lean  toward  each  other,  and  above  them 
thick  boughs  interlace,  and  strange  old  stumps,  look- 
ing as  though  they  had  been  sculptured,  twist  and  cross 
like  the  beams  of  an  ancient  manor-house.  No  longer  can 
the  sunlight  enter  ;  it  is  with  difficulty  that  the  mysteri- 
ous twilight  filters  through  the  branches  to  scatter  here 
and  there  pale,  silver  tears.  Every  one  walks  silently, 
men  and  women  glide  quietly  along  with  the  furtive 
hurried  movement  of  phantoms.  "  It  seems  almost  like 
being  in  purgatory !  "  murmurs  a  peasant,  with  a  sigh 
of  relief,  when,  the  giddy  descent  finished,  we  find  our- 
selves once  more  beneath  the  open  sky.  And  it  would 
be  difficult  to  give  a  better  idea  of  the  superstitious 
anxiety  that  seems  to  haunt  everybody  on  this  part  of 
the  journey. 

And  now  everything  is  light  once  more,  light  and 
living.  We  paddle  gaily ithrough  damp  meadows;  we 
cross  bogs  on  stems  of  iris,  reeds,  genista,  cut  this 
morning  by  the  neighbouring  shepherds  ;  we  pass 
through  farmyards,  where  girls  are  leaning  their  elbows 
on  the  wells,  bowl  in  hand,  offering  drink  to  thirsty 
pilgrims.  We  traverse  the  territory  of  Kernevez,  on 
the  borders  of  Quemeneven.  There  the  shadow  of 
Keben  still  rests  ;  there  is  her  washing-pool,  under  the 
willows  ;  there,  too,  the  stone  on  which  she  used  to 
kneel  on  washing  days.  The  trace  of  her  knees  can 
still  be  seen,  and  they  say  that  at  midnight,  on  moon- 
light nights,  she  still  appears,  wringing  her  winding- 
sheet  between  her  skeleton  fingers,  squeezing  from  it 
a  horrible  mixture  of  pus  and  blood.     At  all  events,  the 


THE   PI.AC   AR   C'HORN 


THE   PARDON   OF   THE   MOUNTAIN     247 

curse  that  weighs  on  her  has  not  descended  to  the  place 
where  she  lived,  for  it  is  one  of  the  most  exquisite  corners 
of  the  country,  with  rich  meadows,  an  ocean  of  corn, 
avenues  of  superb  beech  trees.  Here  the  Tromenie  rests 
pleasantly  before  gathering  its  forces  together  to  make 
the  great  assault  on  the  mountain. 

From  this  side  the  Menez  rises,  apparently  inacces- 
sible. It  has  all  the  steep  abruptness  of  those  heights 
on  which  the  ancients  built  their  holy  places.  Cross- 
bearers  and  carriers  of  banners  attack  it  straight  before 
them  boldly,  as  though  they  were  charging  it.  Do  not 
imagine  it  is  by  way  of  showing  off  their  strength. 
Unless  they  climbed  this  goat's  path  almost  in  a  breath 
they  would  sink  exhausted  halfway.  The  drums  and 
fifes  do  their  best  to  cheer  them,  and  the  procession 
follows  as  best  it  can,  helter-skelter,  panting,  flushed. 

How  good  it  feels  to  breathe  the  air  on  high,  to  fill 
one's  lungs  with  the  breeze  from  the  Atlantic,  and  to 
sniff  the  freshness  that  is  rising  from  the  west  at  the 
first  approach  of  evening  !  .  .  . 

The  spot  we  have  reached  on  the  high  ground  has 
kept  the  name  of  "  Plaf-ar-C'horn."  Keben  must  have 
had  a  strong  arm  to  send  the  horn  of  Ronan's  ox  flying 
all  this  distance  with  one  blow  of  her  racket.  The  cart 
that  bore  the  corpse  of  the  saint  stopped,  they  say,  for  a 
few  moments  at  this  place,  no  doubt  in  order  to  allow 
the  hermit  to  cast  one  last  look  over  his  favourite  view. 
About  ten  years  ago  a  statue  was  erected  to  him  here. 
But  it  was  a  great  mistake  not  to  have  sculptured  it 
after  the  expressive  manner  of  the  early  Breton  image- 
makers.  Against  the  pedestal  leans  a  pulpit,  whence 
a  priest  is  about  to  preach  to  the  crowd.     It  will  be 


248  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

a  regular  "  Sermon  on  the  Mount "  in  the  midst  of  a 
country  equal  in  delicacy,  and  in  sober  harmony  of  con- 
tour, to  the  most  beautiful  spots  in  Galilee.  While  wait- 
ing for  the  sermon  to  begin,  the  pilgrims  rest  beneath  the 
tents  set  up  by  neighbouring  innkeepers,  or  lie  tired  out 
on  the  grass,  drunk  with  the  sunshine,  but  never  ceasing 
their  prayers.  The  sermon  ended,  they  will  reform  the 
procession,  and  descend  the  other  slope  of  the  Menez 
by  the  moorland  paths  I  trod  this  morning,  only  reaching 
Locronan  as  the  first  stars  are  showing. 

I  cannot  hear  the  preacher,  but  I  have  no  difficulty 
in  imagining  the  simple,  moving  things  he  finds  to  say 
in  such  a  place,  to  such  an  audience,  at  this  holy  hour  of 
sunset,  so  suitable  for  the  setting  forth  of  the  legend  of 
a  country  that  has  never  lost  her  faith,  even  if  to  her 
eyes  it  is  not  all  the  truth.  .  .  . 

The  banners,  the  crosses,  are  lying  against  the 
banks.  .  .  .  The  Bay  of  Douarnenez  stretches  silent, 
pale  in  the  evening  light,  striped  with  those  blue-water 
marks  that  are  the  veins  of  the  sea.  Fantastic  promon- 
tories rise  crowding  about  the  water,  and  grow  little 
by  little  nearer  to  one  another,  like  walls  enclosing  the 
horizon.  Far-away  songs,  tinkling  bells,  announce  that 
the  pilgrims  are  once  more  on  the  march.  And  now  all 
is  still,  even  the  wind.  A  great  peace  settles  down  with 
the  coming  of  grey  twilight.  Shore,  plain,  valleys,  die 
out,  drowned  in  shadow.  Only  the  great  top  of  the 
sacred  mountain  rises  clear  above  a  bed  of  cloud,  sur- 
rounded by  a  nimbus  of  dying  light. 


THE    PROCKS^loX    OF    SAIXTE   AN  N  K-1)E-L.\-PALUDE 


BOOK   v.— SAINTE   ANNE   DE   LA 
PALUDE 

THE   PARDON   OF   THE   SEA 

DEDICATED   TO   ALEXANDRA   VASSILIEVNA 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  first  time  I  visited  the  sanctuary  of  La  Palude 
was  in  winter.  I  travelled  there  from  Chateaulin 
in  the  shabby  hooded  cart  of  a  peasant.  It  was  a  grey, 
rainy  afternoon,  as  melancholy  as  any  dusk.  The  man 
who  drove  had  a  bearing  much  the  same  colour  as  the 
sky.  All  one  could  see  of  him  was  a  huge  hat  with 
broken  brims,  and  a  checked  farmer's  coat,  in  which  all 
his  body  was  wrapped  as  though  in  a  blanket.  Neither 
going  nor  returning  was  I  able  to  extract  one  word 
from  him.  To  each  of  my  questions  he  responded 
simply  by  a  grunt.  However,  if  he  did  not  speak,  he 
certainly  whistled.  The  whole  length  of  the  journey  he 
whistled  without  once  leaving  off,  and  always  the  same 
tune,  some  shepherd's  song,  despairingly  monotonous. 
I  still  seem  to  be  listening  to  it.  A  little  Crozon  girl, 
who  was  on  her  way  back  from  Lourdes,  shared  the 
carriage  with  me.  She  was  to  get  out  somewhere 
in  the  neighbourhood   of  Mcnez  Horn.     But  she,  too, 


250  THE   LAND  OF   PARDONS 

persisted  in  a  grim  silence,  her  face  hidden  under  the 
hood  of  a  thick  black  cloth  mantle,  and  in  her  hands 
a  chaplet  of  large  beads  (a  souvenir  of  the  south),  which 
she  told  by  dozens,  with  a  constant,  surreptitious  move- 
ment. Over  her  thin  lips  prayers  came  silently  wander- 
ing, and  her  eyes  were  kept  lowered ;  no  doubt  to  prevent 
the  escape  of  those  ecstatic  visions  she  had  gathered  on 
her  pilgrimage.  Her  narrow  forehead,  quite  pure  in 
shape,  was  bounded  by  the  bar-like  line  of  her  eyebrows. 
I  should  have  liked  to  have  heard  her  account  of  the 
broad,  melancholy  country  through  which  we  were 
passing,  unknown  as  it  was  to  me,  though  to  her  its 
every  detail  must  have  been  familiar.  But  I  saw  at 
once  that  she  was  one  of  those  little  savages  of  the 
Breton  coast  who  look  upon  all  men  dressed  in  town 
garments,  even  though  they  speak  the  same  language, 
as  foreigners,  suspicious  characters.  So  I  did  not 
trouble  to  disturb  her  in  her  prayers.  It  was  a  curious 
journey;  what  the  Bretons  call,  "A  Journey  through 
Purgatory,"  no  doubt  because  of  the  ghostly  aspect  that 
all  distant  objects  take  under  the  lowering,  troubled 
skies,  drowned  in  cloud. 

First  we  crossed  a  series  of  plains  in  a  bare  country, 
bristling  here  and  there  with  sombre  soot-coloured 
pines,  last  survivors  of  a  long-vanished  forest.  To  right 
and  left  lay  the  rounded  backs  of  hills,  like  the  immense 
tombs  of  some  prehistoric  age.  I  have  since  learned  the 
names  of  these  strange  cairns  ;  nearly  every  one  is  called 
after  the  name  of  some  saint.  Rising  from  their  sum- 
mits, or  crouching  on  their  flanks,  are  chapels,  little, 
deserted,  ruinous  prayer-houses,  where  some  old  barbarous 
statue  is  enthroned,  and  where  the  bell  only  wakes  up 


THE   PARDON    OF  THE   SEA  251 

once  a  year,  to  ring  for  a  Low  Mass  on  the  day  of  the 
Pardon.  If  we  are  to  believe  the  legend,  Gildas  himself 
had  his  cell  on  one  of  these  heights — Gildas,  the  apostle 
of  vehemence,  the  Jeremiah  of  the  Breton  emigration. 
It  is  said  that  his  great  shade  prowls,  restless,  through 
this  region,  and  that  sometimes  on  tempestuous  nights  his 
angry  voice  may  be  heard  mingling  with  the  storm-wind. 

At  the  inn  of  The  Three  Ducks  the  carriage 
stopped.  We  were  at  the  foot  of  Menez  Horn.  The 
Crozon  girl  got  down,  paid  the  man,  and  disappeared 
into  a  fold  of  the  mountain,  while  we  branched  off 
toward  the  sea.  We  were  now  among  wooded  meadows, 
fields  bordered  by  thick  banks,  above  which  from  time 
to  time  the  roof  of  a  farm,  surrounded  by  oak  trees,  rose  ; 
but  still  the  country  was  dumb  and  forsaken.  We 
passed  through  two  or  three  villages  without  seeing  a 
soul,  then  once  more  the  face  of  the  country  grew  bare. 
There  were  more  trees,  but  fewer  signs  of  labour.  A  sharp 
breeze  struck  us  in  the  face,  flocks  of  white  birds  passed 
us,  uttering  strange  cries,  a  kind  of  hoarse  yelp ;  then 
the  sound  of  a  strong,  wild  breathing  arose,  and  through 
a  hollow  between  the  dunes  I  caught  sight  of  the  ocean. 
It  seemed  to  have  a  narrow  look,  repulsive  and  foolish, 
threatening  and  tearful.  *'  Are  we  there  ?  "  I  asked  the 
man,  seeing  him  get  down  from  his  seat. 

"  Yes ! "  said  he,  shortly,  without  interrupting  his 
whistling.  And  to  tell  the  truth  the  road  seemed  to 
end  there,  before  a  ruined  arch.  Beyond,  was  a  court- 
yard, at  the  end  of  which  a  very  ancient  manor-house 
was  sinking  into  decay.  It  had  all  the  appearance  of 
being  deserted.  My  entrance  sent  a  crowd  of  chickens 
flying.     The  beaten  earth  was  strewn  with   tools  and 


252  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

farm-implements  of  all  kinds.  I  had  to  climb  over  a 
plough  that  was  lying  wrong  side  up ;  fishing-nets  were 
hung  up  to  dry  on  the  teeth  of  a  harrow  along  by 
the  wall ;  and  mattocks  and  quarry-men's  picks  were 
scattered  among  oars,  pulleys,  stumps  of  masts,  remains 
of  recent  wreckage  that  still  smelt  of  tar  and  salt.  I 
imagined  that  I  must  have  made  a  mistake,  and  have 
entered  the  barn  instead  of  the  dwelling,  and  I  was 
going  to  turn  back,  when  face  to  face  with  me,  sprung 
from  I  know  not  where,  I  saw  a  little  girl  of  some  twelve 
years  old,  with  a  wan  face  and  green,  phosphorescent 
eyes,  who,  putting  her  finger  on  her  lips,  made  a  sign 
to  me  not  to  speak. 

"  My  father  is  asleep,"  she  murmured ;  *'  for  God's 
sake  take  care  not  to  wake  him." 

She  pointed  to  a  cupboard-bed  at  the  other  end  of 
the  room,  the  only  good  piece  of  furniture  in  the  whole 
poor  place.  A  human  form  was  lying  there,  stiff  as  a 
corpse.  A  wet  cloth  covered  his  face,  and  the  hands, 
that  were  stretched  flat  on  the  chaff  mattress,  were  soiled 
with  earth  and  mud. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  your  father  ? " 
"The  day  before  yesterday,  when  he  was  coming 
from  market,  a  little  tipsy,  I  fancy,  the  waggon  went 
over  his  body.  Since  then  he  has  never  ceased  groan- 
ing day  or  night,  except  just  now,  when  I  put  this  linen 
on  his  face.  This  is  the  first  time  I  have  seen  him 
get  any  rest  at  all." 

"  And  you  have  not  sent  for  the  doctor  .? " 
To   this   very   natural   question,   the    horrified   girl 
replied  by  a  start  of  dismay,  and  fixed  her  bright,  wild- 
cat's eyes  upon  me. 


PUTTING    HEK    FINGKKS    TO    HKR    I.ll'S   SHE   MADE   A   .SIGN    TO   ME 
NH)r    ro   Sl'KAK 


THE  PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  253 

"  We  are  in  the  country  of  Saint  Anne,  here,"  said 
she.  "Why  do  you  speak  of  a  doctor?  Is  not  the 
Mother  of  La  Palude  the  most  powerful  of  all  healers  ? 
She  will  know  perfectly  well,  without  anybody's  help, 
how  to  cure  my  father,  who  is  her  own  farmer.  Three 
times  I  have  dipped  that  cloth  in  the  sacred  fountain, 
each  time  with  a  prayer,  and  you  can  see  for  yourself 
what  good  it  has  done.  What  need  is  there  of  any 
other  medicine  ? " 

For  fear  of  disturbing  the  invalid  she  had  not  raised 
her  voice,  but  it  was  vibrating  with  deep  faith,  and 
perhaps  with  a  little  irritation  against  myself,  for  she 
added,  in  a  rather  hostile  tone — 

"  If  you  have  come  for  the  key  you  may  as  well  go  ; 
the  chapel  is  open." 

As  I  went  toward  the  chapel,  I  pictured  to  myself 
an  ancient  house  of  prayer,  half  hidden  by  the  sand- 
dunes — one  of  those  old  oratories  of  which  I  had  found 
so  many  along  the  coast  between  Douarnenez  and  Pen- 
marc'h,  low  walled,  with  windows  close  to  the  ground,  and 
massive  roof,  bomb-proof,  so  to  speak,  capable  of  braving 
the  angry  tumult  of  the  winds  for  long  centuries.  It 
was  quite  a  new  church  that  I  found  !  When  I  say  new, 
I  mean  it  had  been  lately  rebuilt,  for  in  Brittany  every- 
thing grows  to  look  old  at  once.  The  granite  walls, 
soaked  by  the  rain,  had  taken  once  more  their  old  lava 
tints.  The  door  was  open,  and  I  entered.  A  bare  in- 
terior, no  poetry,  no  mystery.  Pale  daylight,  and  the 
mournful  cleanliness  of  a  well-kept  house,  whose  owner 
is  almost  always  absent.  Here  and  there  stood  modern 
statues,  common  and  pretentious.  After  all  the  marvels 
that  had  been  told  me  of  this  place  of  pilgrimage,  I 


254<  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

could  not  help  feeling  a  strong  sense  of  disappointment. 
I  was  about  to  turn  away,  when  a  little  tremulous  cough 
made  me  look  back,  and  I  saw  at  the  foot  of  a  pillar 
on  the  south  side  a  human  figure,  bent  almost  double. 
It  was  one  of  those  poor  old  women  whose  type  is  fast 
disappearing,  and  who  are  now  but  rarely  to  be  met 
with,  save  now  and  then,  beside  the  sacred  fountains. 
She  was  praying  before  an  image  that  I  had  not  perceived 
till  then.     On  the  pedestal  was  this  inscription : — 

"Sainte  Anne,  1543." 

All  kinds  of  extraordinary  ex-voto  offerings  hung 
from,  and  leaned  against,  the  wall — crutches,  woollen 
epaulets,  stained  bits  of  linen,  wax  legs.  .  .  . 

I  was  struck  by  the  resemblance  between  the  sup- 
pliant and  the  saint,  the  one  half  petrified,  the  other 
stone.  They  had  the  same  features,  the  same  attitude, 
and  in  their  faces  there  was  the  same  hopelessness, 
the  sign  of  sad  resignation  so  distinctive  of  the  old 
women  of  that  neighbourhood.  Their  dress,  also,  was 
similar,  grey  hooded  cloak  and  red-brown  skirt,  apron 
with  a  large  bib  pinned  beneath  the  armpits.  It  was  an 
opportunity  for  assuring  myself  that  the  local  costume 
had  varied  little  since  the  sixteenth  century.  And 
beside  this,  I  had  chanced  on  one  of  those  curious 
instances,  perhaps  the  most  curious,  of  Breton  art, 
where  the  image-maker,  belonging  to,  and  working 
among  the  peasant  class,  had  chosen  his  models  from 
his  immediate  surroundings.  This  explains  the  inno- 
cent realism  of  the  greater  number  of  the  figures  that 
they  have  left,  the  intensely  lifelike  effect  they  produce, 
the  race-impress  with  which  they  are  marked.     This  is 


THK    ANCIKNT    FKiURK   OK    SAINIK    AN.\KI>K-1.A  TAIl   UK 


CHATEAU   MOELLIEN,    THE    REPUTED    HOME   OF   SAINT   ANNE 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  255 

why  the  heads  of  the  Breton  saints  seem  copies  of  those 
of  the  peasants,  and  that  when  we  see  one  of  the  wan- 
dering singers  outside  the  door  of  a  chapel,  we  ask 
ourselves  whether  he  is  not  one  of  the  apostles  come 
down  from  his  pedestal  in  the  porch. 

The  poor  old  woman  got  up  at  my  approach,  hold- 
ing some  birch  twigs  tied  together  with  a  bit  of  tough 
bark,  with  which  she  began  carefully  dusting  the  stone 
floor. 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  I,  "  that  you  and  Saint  Anne 
are  as  alike  as  two  sisters  ? " 

"  I  am  a  grandmother,  as  she  was,"  answered  she ; 
"and  then,  thank  God,  she  was  also  a  Breton." 

"Saint  Anne  a  Breton!  Are  you  sure  of  that,  my 
old  godmother?" 

She  looked  at  me  with  her  bright  eyes  through  her 
long,  grey  lashes,  and  said,  in  a  pitying  tone : — 

"It  is  very  easy  to  see  that  you  come  from  the 
town.  Townspeople  are  always  so  ignorant ;  they 
despise  us  who  live  out  here,  because  we  do  not  know 
how  to  read  their  books  ;  but  as  for  themselves,  what 
would  they  know  about  the  country  unless  we  were 
here  to  teach  them  ?  .  .  .  Why  yes,  of  course  Saint 
Anne  was  a  Breton.  .  .  .  Go  to  the  Chateau  Moellien, 
and  they  will  show  you  the  room  that  she  lived  in  when 
she  was  queen  of  this  country.  For  she  was  a  queen  ; 
she  was  even  a  duchess,  and  tJiat,  let  me  tell  you,  is  a 
very  grand  title.  They  always  used  to  bless  her  in  the 
cottages,  because  of  her  bounty  and  her  infinite  com- 
passion for  the  poor  and  miserable.  Her  husband,  on 
the  other  hand,  was  a  hard  man.  He  was  jealous  of  his 
wife,  and  did  not  wish  her  to  have  any  children.     When 


256  THE   LAND  OF  PARDONS 

he  found  that  she  was  going  to  be  a  mother,  he  fell 
into  a  great  passion,  and  drove  her  from  his  house  one 
night  in  the  middle  of  winter,  as  though  she  had  been  a 
beggar,  so  that  it  is  a  wonder  that  she  did  not  die  in  the 
frozen  rain. 

"  Homeless  and  miserable,  she  was  wandering  on 
straight  before  her,  when  in  the  Bay  of  Trefentec,  at  the 
foot  of  this  sand-hill,  she  saw  a  ship  of  light,  lying  quite 
quietly,  though  the  sea  was  very  stormy  ;  and  in  the 
stern  of  the  vessel  stood  a  white  angel,  spreading  his 
wings  by  way  of  sails. 

"  Said  the  angel  to  the  saint :  '  Make  haste  and 
come  aboard,  so  that  we  may  set  sail,  for  the  time  is 
drawing  nigh.' 

" '  Where  are  you  going  to  take  me  ?  '  asked  she. 

" '  The  wind  will  settle  that.  The  Will  of  God  is  in 
the  wind.' 

"  So  they  sailed  away  to  the  coast  of  Judaea,  landing 
at  the  port  of  Jerusalem,  and,  a  few  days  afterwards,  Anne 
gave  birth  to  a  daughter,  whom  God  intended  to  be  the 
Virgin.  Her  mother  brought  her  up  piously,  taught  her 
her  letters  from  a  book  of  canticles,  and  trained  her  to 
be  good  in  body  and  soul,  so  that  she  might  be  worthy 
of  serving  as  the  Mother  of  Jesus.  Then,  when  her  task 
was  over,  feeling  herself  growing  old,  she  prayed  to 
Heaven,  saying : — 

" '  I  am  longing  for  my  Breton  people.  Before  I  die  let 
me  see  my  parish,  and  the  sea-beach  of  Ploun^vez-Porzay, 
that  is  so  dear  to  my  eyes  !  * 

"  Her  wish  was  granted.  The  ship  of  light  came  back 
for  her,  with  the  same  angel  at  the  helm ;  only  he  was 
dressed  in  black,  so  as  to  show  the  saint  that  she  was 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  25T 

now  a  widow,  the  Lord  of  Moellien  having  died  during 
her  absence. 

"The  people  of  the  castle  had  assembled  on  the  shore 
to  welcome  their  mistress  with  great  demonstrations  of 
joy,  but  she  dismissed  them  at  once. 

" '  Go,'  said  she ;  '  go  and  give  all  my  goods  to  the 
poor  1  * 

"  She  had  made  up  her  mind  to  finish  her  earthly 
days  in  poverty.  And  so  after  that,  she  lived  here,  on 
this  bare  sand-dune,  in  a  state  of  continual  prayer.  The 
light  of  her  eyes  shone  far  over  the  waters  like  a  ray  of 
moonlight.  On  stormy  evenings  she  was  the  safeguard 
of  the  fishers.  With  a  gesture  she  would  still  the  sea, 
and  make  the  waves  lie  down  in  their  beds  like  a  flock 
of  sheep  in  a  stable. 

"Jesus,  her  grandson,  undertook  the  journey  to 
Basse  Bretagne  on  purpose  to  see  her.  He  came  with 
His  disciples  Peter  and  John  to  ask  for  her  blessing 
before  going  to  Calvary.  The  parting  between  them 
was  very  sad ;  Anne  wept  tears  of  blood,  and  Jesus  for 
some  time  was  unable  to  console  her.  At  last  He 
said — 

"'Remember  your  Bretons,  grandmother.  Speak, 
and  I  will  give  them  for  your  sake  whatever  blessing 
you  like  to  ask.' 

"Then  the  saint  dried  her  tears.  '  Ah,  well,'  said 
she,  '  let  a  church  be  consecrated  to  me  on  this  spot. 
So  far  as  its  spire  can  be  seen,  and  so  far  as  its  bell 
can  be  heard,  may  all  sick  bodies,  all  suffering  souls, 
alive  or  dead,  find  peace  ! ' 

"'It  shall  be  as  you  wish,'  answered  Jesus. 

"Then,   to   lay  greater  stress   on  His  promise,  He 
s 


258  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

struck  His  walking-staff  into  the  sand,  and  immediately, 
from  the  dry  side  of  the  sand-dune,  a  fountain  sprang 
forth.  It  has  been  flowing  ever  since,  inexhaustible  ; 
whoever  drinks  with  faith  of  that  water  feels  a  delicious 
freshness  flow  through  his  limbs  and  his  heart  becomes 
young  once  more. 

"One  evening  there  was  great  grief  throughout  the 
land.  The  sky  was  covered  by  a  thick  mist,  the  sea 
uttered  sobs  that  were  almost  human.  Saint  Anne  was 
dead.  The  women  of  the  neighbourhood  came  in  pro- 
cession, with  pieces  of  fine  linen  in  which  to  shroud  her. 
But  in  vain  they  sought  her  body ;  they  found  no 
trace  of  it.  There  was  great  consternation,  and  the 
old  people  murmured  sadly  : — 

"'She  has  gone  away  for  good  and  all.  She  has 
not  even  left  her  remains  to  our  land  ;  surely  it  must  be 
because  some  one  has  inadvertently  failed  in  some 
way.' 

"This  thought  saddened  them  greatly.  Then 
suddenly  the  news  spread  that  some  fishermen  had 
found  in  their  nets  a  sculptured  stone.  When  it  was 
cleared  from  the  mass  of  shells  and  seaweed  that 
covered  it,  every  one  recognized  the  image  of  the  saint. 
As  at  that  time  there  was  no  chapel  at  La  Palude, 
it  was  decided  to  take  it  to  the  church  of  the  nearest 
town.  For  this  purpose  it  was  placed  on  a  litter.  It 
was  so  light  that  four  children  were  able  to  carry  it  as 
far  as  the  fountain,  but  they  were  not  able  to  take  it 
any  further.  The  more  they  tried  to  lift  it  the  heavier 
it  became,  and  the  old  folks  said — 

" '  It  is  a  sign  ;  we  must  build  her  house  here.' 

"  There,  my  good  gentleman  !  that  is  the  true  history 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  259 

of  Anne  de  la  Palude  of  Plounevez-Porzay.  I  learned 
it  of  my  mother,  who  heard  it  from  hers,  at  a  time 
when  such  past  events  used  to  be  piously  handed  down 
from  memory  to  memory." 

The  good  old  creature,  while  talking,  had  been 
sweeping,  gathering  the  dust  together  in  little  handfuls, 
and  storing  it  in  the  corner  of  her  apron.  After  having 
told  me  about  the  saint,  she  proceeded  to  speak  of  her 
own  life,  her  long,  monotonous,  empty,  silent,  poverty- 
stricken  life,  bare  as  the  sanctuary  that  she  had  just 
finished  sweeping  so  carefully.  It  was  terrible,  it  was 
tragic,  because  of  its  very  simplicity.  A  brief  joy 
here  and  there,  one  of  those  short-lived  little  flowers 
that  in  springtime  star  the  grass  of  the  dunes ;  then 
mourning  again,  death-knells  ;  and  over  all  the  grinding 
of  the  ocean,  as  she  crushes  her  victims  down  into  the 
beach. 

"  I  have  no  more  sons,  and  my  daughters-in-law  are 
all  dead  or  remarried.  Sometimes  I  go  and  seat  myself 
at  a  neighbour's  fireside,  but  I  am  always  ill  at  ease  ; 
their  flame  does  not  seem  to  warm  me.  Sometimes  the 
kind  excisemen  will  give  me  one  of  the  low  huts  in  which 
they  shelter  at  night,  when  they  are  guarding  the  coast. 
And  there  I  sleep  on  a  bed  of  seaweed  ;  but  I  am  only 
really  happy  here.  Every  morning  I  go  to  the  farm  and 
ask  for  the  key.  I  do  the  work  of  the  sacristan  ;  I 
sound  the  three  Angelus  bells  ;  I  receive  the  pilgrims 
and  do  the  honours  of  the  house ;  and  they  often  ask 
me  to  recite  for  them  special  prayers,  of  which  I  alone 
know  the  secret.  It  is  I  who  take  them  to  the  fountain 
and  pour  water  into  their  hands,  or  over  their  breasts, 
according  to  the  kind  of  illness  they  have.     As  soon  as 


260  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

they  start  to  come  to  the  saint,  I  am  warned  by  some 
special  and  supernatural  sign.  Sometimes  it  is  the  sound 
of  a  footstep  in  the  empty  church  ;  sometimes  a  cracking 
in  the  woodwork  of  the  altar;  sometimes  even,  when  it  has 
to  do  with  a  great  vow,  light  drops  of  sweat  will  gather 
on  the  forehead  of  the  statue.  Generally,  however, 
nobody  comes  except  on  Tuesday,  which  is  her  special 
day.  The  rest  of  the  week,  the  Mother  of  La  Palude 
has  nothing  to  look  at  save  my  poor  old  face,  dilapidated 
as  a  ruined  sea-wall.  But  she  smiles  at  me,  and  shows 
herself  pitiful  and  sweet  toward  me,  so  as  to  encourage 
me,  and  save  me  from  the  sorrows  in  which,  except  for 
her,  I  should  sometimes  be  drowned.  I  do  my  best  to 
keep  her  company.  I  talk  to  her,  and  it  often  seems  to 
me  that  she  answers.  I  sing  her  the  songs  that  she 
loves  and  her  canticle,  which  I  think  is  the  most  beauti- 
ful there  is  in  our  language.  And  then  I  clean,  I 
sprinkle,  I  sweep,  I  collect  the  dust,  and  give  pinches  of 
it  to  the  pilgrims.  Scatterediover  the  land,  it  will  hasten 
the  crops  and  preserve  the  food  of  man  and  beast  from 
damage." 

I  tried  to  slip  a  few  pieces  of  money  into  her 
hand. 

"  The  box  is  over  there,"  said  she ;  "  as  for  me,  I  am 
only  a  servant  in  this  house ;  I  am  not  in  a  position  to 
receive  the  offerings." 

I  was  afraid  I  had  offended  her,  but  at  my  first 
word  of  excuse  she  interrupted  me,  and  as  I  said  good- 
bye, she  replied  heartily — 

"  Come  back  and  see  us  again,  my  good  gentleman. 
Only  take  care  it  is  in  summer,  the  last  Sunday  in 
August.     Then  you  will  see  Saint  Anne  in  all  her  glory. 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  261 

No  fete  can  be  compared  with  that  of  the  Palude,  and 
those  who  have  never  taken  part  in  it  do  not  know 
what  a  Pardon  really  is.  It  is  held  in  all  the  splendour 
of  the  blessed  sun,  amid  the  unrivalled  wonders  of  the 
ocean." 


262  THE  LAND   OF  PARDONS 


CHAPTER  II 

I  HAVE  followed  your  advice,  my  good  old  friend. 
But  alas !  I  have  sought  you  in  vain,  both  in 
the  church,  and  on  the  top  of  the  beach  where  you  told 
me  you  lived.  Vainly  I  inquired  from  the  excisemen 
whom  I  found  on  guard  ;  they  were  not  those  who 
treated  you  so  kindly,  and  they  did  not  remember 
to  have  ever  seen  you.  Doubtless  the  "ship  of  light" 
came  for  you  one  evening,  when  the  frozen  rain  was 
falling,  and  bore  you  away  to  that  happy,  peaceful  shore, 
where  some  Saint  Anne,  perfect  as  she  of  whom  you 
had  so  long  dreamed,  stood  beckoning  and  awaiting 
you. 

The  humble  soul  had  not  exaggerated  when  she 
spoke  of  this  Pardon  as  the  most  impressive  and  beauti- 
ful of  all  the  Breton  festivals. 

It  was  a  Saturday  toward  the  end  of  August,  the 
hour  sunset.  From  the  top  of  the  rise  at  Trefentec,  the 
holy  country  lay  in  a  warm  brown  glow.  What  a  con- 
trast to  the  desolate  land  I  had  just  been  traversing, 
pale,  colourless,  wrapped  in  a  mist,  through  which  it 
showed  blurred  and  confused,  like  the  phantom  picture 
of  a  dead  country,  ghostland !  Here,  at  this  hour  of 
evening,  everything  was  breathing  forth  life  ;  a  fever  of 
sound  and  excitement  seemed  to  have  taken  possession 
of  the  desert.      Even  the  dunes  rejoiced,  and  the  far 


PAYEZ   I,E   DROIT    DES   PAUVRES!" 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  263 

reaches  of  the  ocean  flamed  liked  a  great  bonfire.  Near 
by,  where  the  stream  of  the  miraculous  fountain  flowed, 
from  a  hollow  in  the  hillside,  a  kind  of  nomad  village, 
was  growing  up  beneath  our  eyes. 

Numberless  tents,  of  every  shape  and  colour,  rose 
and  grouped  themselves  together,  their  sides  bulging 
with  the  wind,  just  as  in  those  far-away  days  when  the 
pastoral  people — the  Jules  Bretons,  as  they  are  called — 
migrated  thither.  It  made  one  think  of  some  savage  en- 
campment, or  of  a  party  of  emigrants  just  disembarked. 
In  fact,  many  of  the  tents  were  supported  with  oars 
stuck  in  the  ground,  and  consisted  of  sails,  stamped  in 
large  black  letters  with  their  registered  number,  and  the 
initial  letter  of  their  port.  Round  about  this  strange 
little  town  lay  the  turned-up  carts,  their  wheels  entangled, 
covering  the  plain  with  a  bristling  forest  of  shafts  ;  while 
on  the  neighbouring  grassland  the  horses  roamed  as 
they  pleased. 

And  over  it  all  spread  a  mighty  clamour,  a  huge 
human  buzzing,  among  which,  now  and  again,  mingled 
a  regular  musical  note,  the  roaring  cadence  of  the 
waves. 

We  had  to  make  a  circuit  of  the  village  in  order  to 
reach  the  church.  A  whole  race  of  beggars  were  lying 
beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elms  in  the  graveyard. 
They  no  sooner  perceived  us,  than  they  rushed  upon 
us  with  the  barks  of  howling  dogs.  Never  have  I  seen 
such  a  number,  not  even  at  the  Pardon  of  Saint  Jean- 
du-Doigt,  where  they  positively  swarm.  And  never 
have  I  come  across  any  quite  so  insolent.  They  did 
not  ask  for  alms,  they  extorted  them. 

"  Pay  the  right  of  the  poor  ! "  they  cried. 


264  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

And  they  rubbed  their  ulcers  against  us,  and 
breathed  in  our  faces  with  their  horrible  breath,  smelling 
strongly  of  spirits.  We  were  obliged  to  scatter  several 
handfuls  of  sous  among  them  before  we  could  get  rid  of 
them.  It  astonished  me  that  the  clergy  tolerated  this 
rude  and  repulsive  horde  in  the  immediate  neighbour- 
hood of  the  chapel,  till  my  companion,  who  was  serving 
me  also  as  guide,  said  : — 

"  They  are  a  part  of  the  original  foundation.  Ages 
ago,  they  had  the  title  of  Kings  of  La  Palude.  It  was 
a  passing  royalty,  however,  for  only  Saturday  ever 
belonged  to  them.  They  arrived  this  morning,  nobody 
knows  whence,  and  to-night  they  will  disappear.  They 
must  finish  their  begging  by  then  ;  that  is  why  they  are 
so  eager  about  it." 

"  But  if  they  chose  to  remain  over  to-morrow  ?  " 

"  They  would  be  violating  the  custom,  and  according 
to  the  old  saying,  custom  is  king'  over  the  king !  .  .  . 
Besides,  to-morrow  the  police  will  be  here  ;  our  beggars 
have  a  horror  of  those  "  spoil-sports,"  the  presence  of  a 
uniform  is  unbearable  to  them  ;  they  much  prefer  to 
decamp.  .  .  .  And  then  the  roads  will  be  full  of  car- 
riages ;  it  would  not  be  safe  for  cripples.  So  prudence 
unites  with  custom  in  bidding  the  whole  crew  make  off 
promptly.  In  a  little  while  you  may  see  for  yourself 
that  this  night-exodus  of  ragged  rascals  is  not  without 
a  certain  charm." 

We  had  now  crossed  the  sill  of  the  church. 

How  restful  it  was  after  the  tumult  outside  !  On  the 
white  walls  hung  garlands  of  ivy  and  holly.  Symbolical 
anchors,  trimmed  with  pine-branches,  were  set  here  and 
there ;    miniature   schooners,    masterpieces  of  patience 


A    REFRESHMENT    BOOTH    AT    LA   PALUDE 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  265 

and  delicate  work,  swayed  in  a  mist  of  incense,  and  on 
her  pedestal  the  saint,  newly  dressed  for  the  occasion, 
seemed  to  have  the  youthful  ways  of  a  grandmother  in 
holiday  clothes.  From  time  to  time,  a  pilgrim  would 
rise  from  among  the  congregation,  approach  the  sacred 
image,  and  after  prostrating  himself  on  the  floor, 
devoutly  kiss  the  border  of  her  robe.  Mothers  lifted 
their  children  in  their  upstretched  arms  toward  the 
gentle  stone  figure.  And  the  smell  of  burnt  wax  filled 
the  air,  and  the  fine  blue  smoke  rose,  rose.  .  .  .  Then 
little  by  little  the  church  emptied.  Only  a  few  old 
widows  in  mourning-cloaks  remained,  telling  their  beads 
to  an  interminable  prayer,  sad  as  a  lamentation,  ...  It 
was  supper-time,  and  night  had  fallen. 

...  A  low,  deep  tent,  half  inn,  half  dormitory. 
People  are  snoring  at  one  end,  while  at  the  other  there 
is  eating  and  drinking  to  the  wavering  light  of  a  tallow 
candle.  On  the  table  are  tin  plates  of  swimming 
sausages ;  pitchers  and  mugs  overflowing  with  greasy 
cider,  very  much  mixed  with  water,  and  turned  to 
vinegar  by  the  heat ;  tiny  charcoal  stoves  for  lighting 
pipes,  a  big  jar  in  which  to  wash  one's  hands.  .  .  .  We 
are  here  in  the  domain  of  Marie-Ange,  a  sprightly  dame, 
angelic  in  nothing  save  her  name.  In  the  ordinary  way 
she  sells  fish  at  Douarnenez  in  the  market,  and  it  is 
only  now  and  then,  under  the  most  solemn  circumstances, 
that  she  undertakes  the  duties  of  an  innkeeper.  But 
she  fills  the  post  to  a  marvel  ;  lively,  quick,  with  an  eye 
for  everything,  and  a  word  for  every  one,  active  of  leg, 
and  bold  of  speech. 

The  entrance  of  the  tent,  a  flap  of  sailcloth  fastened 
back  with   a  rope  by  way  of  loop,  looks  out  upon  the 


266  THE  LAND  OF  PARDONS 

church,  and  further  on,  through  a  dip  in  the  dunes,  has 
a  view  of  the  serene  tranquillity  of  the  sea.  A  turf  fire 
is  burning  a  few  steps  off;  in  the  open  air  above  it  the 
coffee  of  Marie-Ange  is  simmering  in  a  caldron  that 
rests  on  a  bundle  of  faggots.  Sparks  are  flying  and 
glittering,  lighting  up  little  quick,  short  flames  in  the  dry 
grass.  To  the  right  stands  a  dark  mass,  the  silhouette 
of  a  circus  ;  a  bronze-coloured  girl,  leaning  her  elbows 
between  the  twisted  columns  of  the  balustrade,  is 
gazing  straight  before  her  into  space,  while  a  deformed 
creature  nails  to  the  front  of  the  waggon  this  amazing 
notice — 

"  Quehern  O'Michel  tells  fortunes.  Certain  to  be 
fulfilled.     Undertakes  the  cure  of  boils." 

The  night  is  still,  peaceful,  bathed  in  clear  moon- 
light that  seems  to  fall  in  drops  towards  the  east.  Only 
the  breathing  of  the  waves  can  be  heard  through  the 
silence  that  has  followed  the  tumult  of  the  day.  The 
sky  curves  in  a  great  dome,  like  the  roof  of  a  mighty 
temple,  and,  involuntarily,  one  lowers  the  voice  in  speak- 
ing, out  of  respect  to  a  certain  divine  something  that 
roams  through  the  silent  majesty.  Suddenly  a  song 
breaks  forth,  a  slow,  hoarse  rhapsody,  that  sounds  as 
though  hurled  forth  by  a  choir  of  drunkards — 

"  Enn  eskopti  a  Gernd,  war  vordik  ar  mor  glaz.  ..."  * 

It  is  the  beggars  dispersing.  A  fantastic  and 
ghastly  procession !  They  pass  by  in  a  crowd,  pell- 
mell,  shouting  with  their  half-drunken  voices  the  praises 

"  On  the  edge  of  the  blue  sea,  in  the  bishopric  of  Cornou- 
ailles.  .  .  ." 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  267 

of  La  Palude  and  the  merits  of  the  saint,  true  grand- 
mother of  the  Saviour. 

"  Par  qui  la  rose  a  fleuri  ou  ne  poussait  que  I'dpine."  * 

More  than  one  tipsy  fellow  sings  as  though  in  a 
dream.  Many  of  the  women  are  carrying  babies  in 
their  arms,  fatherless  little  ones,  born  anywhere  along 
the  roads.  The  blind  pass,  with  their  hesitating,  sleep- 
walking gait,  each  face  turned  toward  the  sky,  each 
hand  grasping  a  staff  like  a  shepherd's  crook,  made 
from  the  stem  of  a  young  sapling. 

Bodies  of  men  swing  backwards  and  forwards 
between  crutches,  like  bells  in  their  gables.  The  pro- 
cession is  closed  by  an  idiot,  a  tall  boy  with  a  vacant 
face,  who,  seen  but  vaguely  in  the  half-light,  looks  in  his 
grey  gown  like  some  monk.  The  people  take  off  their 
hats  and  cross  themselves  as  he  passes,  for  does  not  the 
Spirit  of  God  dwell  in  the  soul  of  the  simple?  With 
a  gracious  air,  Marie-Ange  offers  him  a  glass  of  cider  ; 
but  he  is  not  thirsty,  as  the  old  woman  who  leads  him 
by  a  leash  explains.  And  so  he  disappears  with  the 
others  round  the  side  of  the  dune  into  the  night.  One 
of  the  pilgrims  whispers  in  my  ear  : — 

"  Saint  Anne  is  particularly  fond  of  that  idiot.  About 
six  years  ago  he  fell  ill,  some  leagues  from  here,  near 
by  the  Mountains  of  Are,  and  could  not  get  to  La 
Palude  for  the  Pardon.  The  festival  was  completely 
spoilt.  From  Friday  morning  till  Monday  evening  it 
poured  in  torrents.  Ah,  the  blessing  of  Heaven  is 
always  over  these  '  Innocents.'" 

*  "  From  whom  a  rose  flowered  where  only  a  thorn  budded." 


268  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

Silence  is  reigning  once  more,  save  now  and  then, 
when  some  horse  that  has  wandered  away  neighs  to  his 
companions  ;  and  always,  always,  there  is  the  sound  of 
the  slumbering  sea,' calm  as  the  breath  of  a  sleeping 
child. 

We  have  come  down  the  steep  paths  that  lead  to 
the  beach.  In  the  crannies  of  the  rock  couples  are 
sitting,  young  men  and  young  girls  ;  the  latter,  sardine- 
workers  from  the  Isle  of  Tristan,  from  Douarnenez 
and  Treboul,  perhaps  even  from  Audierne  and  Saint 
Guennole  ;  the  latter,  blue-jackets  from  Brest,  who  have 
got  permission  to  come  to  the  Pardon  to  kiss  their 
"  friends,"  their  sweethearts — to  hold  one  sad,  supreme 
vigil  of  love  before  starting  on  their  next  voyage. 
Like  all  grandmothers,  Saint  Anne  is  indulgent  towards 
them.  She  is  not  shocked  by  these  nocturnal  meetings  ; 
on  the  contrary,  she  favours  them,  stretching  the  velvety 
canopy  of  her  sky,  all  spangled  with  stars,  over  their 
heads;  lending  them  her  soft,  rounded  dune,  the  quiet 
corners  of  her  grottoes,  carpeted  with  seaweed  ;  shelters 
them  with  mystery,  peace,  and  poetry.  She  knows 
the  hereditary  chastity  of  their  race,  and  that  in  their 
eyes  love  is  a  form  of  religion.  It  is  true  that  Marie- 
Ange  tells  us  the  story  of  a  "Capenn,"  a  daughter 
of  Cap-Sizun,  "qui  attrapa  au  Pardon  de  la  Palude, 
une  maladie  de  trente-six  Jeudis ! "  But  you  hear 
of  such  things  just  because  they  are  so  extremely 
rare.  The  couples  whom  we  .have  disturbed  are 
holding  one  another  by  the  hand,  without  a  word, 
absorbed  in  silent  contemplation,  their  souls  con- 
versing with  one  another.  And  truly,  their  thoughts 
appear     more     solemn     than    wanton.       They    make 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  269 

me   think   of  two    lines   of  a   song  I  once   heard    at 
Paimpol — 

"  Ropeuc'h  ro  peuc'h,  mestrezik  flour  ! 
Me  wel  ma  maro  'bars  an  dour.  ..."  * 

There  is  always  something  tragic  about  a  sailor's 
betrothal,  and  the  vows  he  exchanges  with  his  love  are 
more  often  than  not  sad  as  farewells,  .  .  . 

And  now  a  whistle  informs  us  that  the  Glaneuse  is 
about  to  make  a  halt.  Generally  this  little  coasting- 
steamer  crosses  the  bay  in  a  straight  line,  from  Morgat 
to  Douarnenez ;  but,  during  the  Pardon,  it  stops  at  La 
Palude. 

We  found  about  twenty  passengers  on  board,  almost 
all  fishermen  belonging  to  the  bay.  The  peasants, 
going  as  well  as  coming,  prefer  the  land  route.  How- 
ever, there  was  one  old  man  from  Ploard,  with  his 
wife  ;  and  my  companion,  who  knew  him,  spoke  to  him 
about  the  journey — 

"  Hello,  old  Tymeur !  So  you  are  not  afraid  to  trust 
yourself  on  the  fishes'  road  ?  .  .  .  Is  this  some  vow 
that  you  have  made,  or  are  your  legs  no  longer  able  to 
carry  you  ?  " 

"Neither  the  one  nor  the  other,"  answered  the  old 
man,  coming  up  to  us,  glad  to  have  some  one  to  talk  to 
during  the  passage.  "  Thank  God,  our  legs  arc  as  firm 
as  ever,  and  as  to  our  vow,  Renee-Jeanne  and  I  have 
seen  to  that  most  carefully  last  evening,  as  befits  good 
Christians." 

"  Then  I  suppose  you  have  forgiven  the  sea  ?  " 


*  « 


Be  still !  be  still,  sweet  mistress  ! 
I  see  my  death  in  the  sea.  .  .  ." 


270  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

"  No,  no  !  I  shall  owe  her  a  grudge  as  long  as  I 
live.  She  took  our  son  Yvon,  God  rest  his  soul !  Such 
things  can  never  be  forgiven.  The  sea !  Neither 
Renee-Jeanne  nor  I  can  bear  the  smell  of  her !  One  of 
our  windows  looked  out  over  the  sea.  We  have  had 
it  built  up.  The  land  is  the  true  mother  of  men  ;  the 
sea  is  only  their  cruel  step-mother.  If  I  were  Saint 
Anne,  I  would  dry  the  whole  sea  up  in  a  single 
night." 

"Yes,  yes,  Tymeur ;  but  that  does  not  explain  to 
us."  .  .  . 

"Ah  no,  that  is  true.  Well,  after  all,  I  don't 
know  that  there  is  any  harm  in  telling  you.  Nothing 
comes  without  God's  permission  ;  does  it,  Ren^e- 
Jeanne  ? " 

Renee-Jeanne,  crouching  on  a  heap  of  ropes,  was 
murmuring  a  set  of  strange  prayers — charms,  no  doubt, 
against  the  evil  spirits  that  infest  the  waters.  She 
waved  her  hand  vaguely,  and  old  Father  Tymeur,  after 
assuring  himself  that  we  could  not  be  overheard,  began 
his  story. 

It  happened  thus.  The  year  before,  on  the  same 
day,  and  at  the  same  hour,  he  and  Renee-Jeanne  were 
returning  towards  Ploare  along  the  road.  A  little  before 
Kerlaz,  on  the  right-hand  side,  stands  the  chapel  of  La 
Clarte,  where  the  pilgrims  from  La  Palude  generally 
make  a  halt  and  recite  a  prayer,  because  Our  Lady  of 
La  Clarte  is  supposed  to  be  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Saint  Anne,  just  as  Our  Lady  of  Kerlaz  is  her  second 
daughter.  Our  friends  were  just  about  to  cross  the 
steps  leading  to  the  graveyard,  when,  by  the  light  of  the 
moon,  they  perceived  a  man  seated  among  the  grass  on 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE  SEA  271 

a  long  box  made  of  loose  planks.  He  seemed  dread- 
fully worn  out,  for  the  sweat  poured  from  his  bare  fore- 
head and  ran  out  between  his  extremely  thin  fingers. 
Tymeur  hailed  him,  and  said  pityingly — 

"  You  seem  very  much  exhausted,  my  poor  '  God- 
father.' " 

"  Ah  yes ;  indeed,  the  burden  I  have  to  carry  is  so 
heavy.  ...  Is  it  much  further  to  La  Palude  .<* "  asked 
the  wretched  man,  in  a  sad  voice. 

"  About  three-quarters  of  a  league.  My  wife  and  I 
would  like  to  help  you,  if  you  will  tell  us  something  that 
we  can  do.     Is  there  anything  .-'  " 

"  Indeed  there  is  much."  .  .  . 

"  Well,  tell  me." 

"Say  a  Mass  in  your  parish  church  for  the  repose  of 
a  soul  in  trouble,  for  an  Anaon.  ...  In  exchange,"  con- 
tinued the  dead  man — for  it  was  one — "  I  will  give  you 
a  piece  of  advice.  ...  If  ever  you  undertake  to  go  on  a 
pilgrimage  in  the  name  of  any  friend,  keep  your  promise 
faithfully  during  your  lifetime.  If  you  do  not,  it  will 
haunt  you  after  death,  as  mine  does.  I  undertook  to  go 
to  La  Palude  for  this  man  who  is  here  beneath  me  in 
the  box.  But  life  is  so  short,  and  there  are  such  numbers 
of  things  to  remember.  Unfortunately,  I  forgot  the 
most  important,  and  now  I  am  reaping  my  punishment 
For  more  years  than  I  can  count  I  have  been  journeying 
towards  Saint  Anne.  Each  Pardon  only  brings  me 
nearer  by  the  length  of  the  coffin.  Ah,  and  if  you  only 
knew  how  heavy  the  corpse  of  a  deceived  friend  weighs  ! 
.  .  .  By  saying  that  Mass  for  me  you  will  shorten  my 
journey  by  a  great  many  lengths." 

At  these  words  he  disappeared,  and  Tymeur  and  his 


272  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

wife  went  and  knelt  down  under  the  porch  and  remained 
there  in  prayer  until  dawn,  stopping  up  their  ears  so  as 
not  to  hear  the  dead  man  panting  under  the  weight  of 
bones  and  mouldy  planks.  After  a  pause,  the  old  man 
concluded  thus — 

"  One  does  not  expose  one's  self  twice  to  such  meet- 
ings as  that ;  does  one,  Ren^e-Jeanne  ?  " 

Renee-Jeanne  had  drawn  her  white  cloth  hood,  with 
its  broad  band  of  black  velvet,  over  her  face,  and  turned 
her  back  obstinately  to  the  sea.  .  .  .  But  this  did  not 
render  it  any  the  less  beautiful  to  watch  on  that  lovely 
August  night.  The  air  was  warm,  and  perfumed  with  a 
strange  scent,  as  though  the  exquisite  flowers  of  the 
gardens  of  Ker-Is  had  all  at  once  awaked  from  their 
enchanted  sleep  and  were  spreading  their  fragrance  over 
the  surface  of  the  waters.  It  lay  there  almost  at  our 
feet,  this  fairy  city  of  legend.  Now  and  then,  in  the 
hollow  between  two  waves,  one  almost  fancied  that  it 
could  still  be  seen,  that  its  voices  and  noises  could  be 
heard.  The  phosphorescent  lights  that  glowed  on  the 
crests  of  the  waves  seemed  the  illuminations  of  a  city 
keeping  holiday.  We  slipped  past  towering  cliffs  and 
tall  stone  skeleton,  enigmatical  faces,  who  for  centuries 
had  been  watching  some  sight  beneath  the  water,  seen 
only  to  themselves.  And  the  sky  above  our  heads  was 
like  another  ocean,  where  among  the  sparkling  stars  a 
crescent  moon  lay  floating. 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  SEA  273 


CHAPTER  HI 

THE  next  morning,  Sunday,  the  sun  rose  on  the 
Great  Day.  Once  more  I  can  see  Douarnenez 
setting  forth  in  a  crowd  towards  La  Palude.  All  the 
conveyances  of  the  country  have  been  put  in  requisition, 
and  are  taken  by  assault.  Between  the  crowded  seats 
extra  stools  are  placed,  borrowed  from  the  neighbouring 
inn.  The  driver  seats  himself  in  front,  outside,  a  foot 
on  each  shaft ;  the  many-coloured  shawls  of  the  girls 
seated  behind  sweep  the  pavement  with  their  fringes  ; 
and  the  char-a-bancs  roll  heavily  away  at  the  slow  pace 
of  the  Cornouailles  cob,  who  seems  very  philosophical, 
and  no  longer  surprised  at  anything.  The  men  are 
gorgeous  in  their  new  jackets,  their  caps  pulled  well 
down  over  their  eyes.  They  wave  their  arms,  they 
shout,  partly  because  they  feel  they  must,  and  partly 
because  they  are  so  happy ;  just  to  prove  to  themselves 
that  they  are  not  in  their  boats,  where  the  least  move- 
ment must  be  measured,  restrained,  calculated,  under 
pain  of  death  ;  and  also  to  exorcise  their  souls,  as  they 
will  tell  you,  from  the  great  stillness  of  the  sea,  even 
more  haunting  than  its  anger.  These  occasional  looscn- 
ings  of  their  constrained  nerves  and  muscles  are  posi- 
tively necessary  to  them.  The  Pardon  of  Saint  Anne 
is  one  of  the  safety-valves  through  which  these  rough 

T 


274  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

creatures  blow  off  the  superfluous  steam  of  their  re- 
pressed spirits,  I  have  heard  grave,  respectable  people 
and  officials  reproach  them  for  the  almost  brutal  impetu- 
osity with  which  they  rush  to  any  merry-making.  And 
it  is  true  ;  they  fling  themselves  at  it,  head  lowered, 
joyous,  heedless,  wasteful,  scattering  the  savings  of 
weeks,  or  months.  In  matters  of  domestic  economy 
they  are  still  in  a  state  of  savagery.  Let  others  blame 
them  !  As  for  myself,  I  have  seen  them  at  work  in  their 
fishing-boats  during  stormy  nights  at  sea,  and  when  I 
remember  that  life  of  the  damned  which  they  lead,  ever 
the  prey  of  a  toil  whose  ingratitude  has  no  equal,  save 
their  patience,  I  am  tempted  rather  to  think  that  these 
short  intervals,  during  which  God  snatches  them  from 
hell,  are  but  too  short. 

All  the  life  of  the  port  has  retreated  to  the  upper 
town.  The  quays  are  deserted.  The  fishing-boats,  drawn 
up  on  the  sand,  lie  side  by  side  in  abandoned  attitudes, 
glad  of  this  twenty-four  hours'  respite.  They  are  so 
tired,  and  it  is  so  pleasant  even  for  the  boats  to  have 
one  day  in  which  they  may  lie  and  dream  in  peace ! 
The  nets  are  hanging  in  the  sun,  fastened  to  the  masts. 
And  the  tide  is  low,  the  bay  is  empty,  for  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach ;  only  towards  the  north  rise  the  white 
cliffs  of  Morgat,  and  the  stone  needles  of  the  Cape  of 
the  Goat. 

I  was  anxious  to  go  to  La  Palude  by  the  pilgrim 
path.  The  line  of  pilgrims  enter  the  woods  of  Plomarc'h. 
Mysterious  pools  are  sleeping  under  the  beech  trees. 
Hither  the  daughter  of  Gralon,  Ahes,  or,  as  she  is  some- 
times called,  Dahut,  used  to  come  with  her  companions, 
the  fair-haired  girls  of  Ker-Is,  to  wash  her  royal  linen. 


HK   .sAKDINK    HOA  1  >    Ol-     1  n  >IAKM-.N  K/ 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  275 

They  say  that  the  water  of  these  fountains  has  kept  her 
image,  and  the  mosses  on  their  banks  the  sweet  scent  of 
her  hair.  Through  the  network  of  branches  sparkles  the 
sea.  It  scarcely  leaves  us  throughout  the  journey,  always 
adorable,  never  the  same ;  spreading,  in  her  coquettish 
way,  numberless  charms  before  our  eyes,  and  the  infinite 
grace  of  her  everlasting  allurement.  It  is  her  festival — 
do  not  forget  that — her  fete,  as  well  as  that  of  Saint 
Anne,  that  these  Bretons  of  the  coast  of  Cornouailles 
are  celebrating  to-day.  In  ancient  times,  when  yet  the 
grandmother  of  Jesus  was  not  born,  slie  was  the  only 
idol  in  these  parts.  She  had  no  chapel  among  the 
dunes ;  the  ceremonies  of  her  worship  were  performed 
in  the  open  air.  But  people  ran  thither  in  crowds,  just 
as  they  do  now,  and  the  time  of  year  was  the  same,  the 
hot  month  of  August,  because  then  the  goddess  revealed 
herself  in  all  her  glorious  beauty,  unveiling  her  loveli- 
ness, her  pearly,  transparent  flesh  quivering  beneath  the 
caresses  of  the  light  before  the  ravished  gaze  of  her 
worshippers.  Then  her  pilgrims,  assembled  on  the 
heights,  would  stretch  their  arms  toward  her,  sing 
hymns  in  praise  of  her,  lose  themselves  in  the  con- 
templation of  her  charms.  There  is  no  doubt  that 
Ahes,  or  Dahut,  was  one  of  the  names  by  which  this 
goddess  was  invoked  ;  but  what  particular  kind  of 
incantation  was  associated  with  this  name  we  shall 
probably  never  know. 

At  all  events,  the  myth  has  survived,  and  its  earlier 
meaning  shows  plainly  through  all  the  retouching  it  has 
undergone  at  the  hands  of  Christianity,  Ahes  had  an 
undulating  way  of  moving,  long  floating  hair,  sometimes 
the  colour  of  the  sun,  sometimes  of  the  moon  ;  her  eyes 


276  THE   LAND  OF  PARDONS 

were  changeful  and  fascinating.  She  lived  in  an  im- 
mense palace,  whose  windows  shone  like  great  emeralds. 
She  was  subject  to  violent  passions,  an  insatiable  rage 
for  love.  She  preferred  the  men  of  the  people,  strong, 
rough  lads.  If  a  fisher,  with  his  nets  over  his  shoulder, 
passed  the  window  of  her  chamber,  she  would  make 
him  a  sign  to  enter.  Many  times  during  one  night 
would  she  change  her  lover,  and  she  would  dance  naked 
before  them,  twine  her  arms  around  them,  and  sing  them 
to  sleep,  so  that  they  never  woke  again.  For  her  kisses 
were  fatal.  The  lips  upon  which  she  placed  her  own 
remained  open  for  ever.  She  was  a  devourer  of  souls. 
Any  one  of  her  caprices  was  sufficient  to  cause  the 
most  terrible  disaster,  to  efface  a  whole  city  from  the 
map  of  the  world  in  the  winking  of  an  eye.  She  was 
adored,  yet  hated.  She  was  irresistible,  and  fatal.  Who 
does  not  recognize  in  her  the  living  personification  of 
the  sea  ? 

On  the  beach  of  the  Ris  the  pilgrims  stop  to  take 
off  their  shoes.  The  tide  is  ebbing.  The  dazzling  white 
sands  are  glittering,  all  spangled  with  mica ;  there  is 
nearly  a  mile  of  this  shore  altogether.  It  is  delightful 
to  put  one's  foot  on  the  level  ground,  fine  grained  and 
polished  like  a  floor  of  marble.  Beneath  the  pressure 
unseen  waters  well  forth.  The  great  ragged  shadows  of 
cliffs  form  a  shelter  from  the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  from 
the  caverns  that  the  waves  have  burrowed  in  the  slaty 
rock  a  damp  breath  issues,  fanning  the  hot  face  of  the 
passer-by.  Flocks  of  sea-mews  and  gulls,  their  wide- 
spread wings  tipped  with  rosy  light,  float  motionless  in 
the  air. 

A    bay,    a    field,    some     dry,    almost    precipitous 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  SEA  277 

moorland.  We  are  following  the  land  path  once  more, 
but  across  a  mournful  country,  under  an  overwhelmingly 
hot  sky.  No  shelter,  not  a  tree !  At  most  an  unex- 
pected coombe,  a  group  of  rickety  willows  over  a  dried- 
up  fountain.  Then,  again,  monstrous  rocks  overhanging 
the  abyss.  The  path  clings  to  their  sides,  or  wanders 
about  in  their  crannies.  And  down  below  that  traitress, 
the  sea,  watches  the  passer-by. 

"  Monsieur  !  monsieur  ! "  cries  a  voice  behind  me,  a 
panting  woman's  voice,  speaking  in  Breton. 

It  is  an  "  Islienne  "  from  Sein  who  is  calling,  a  widow 
apparently,  judging  from  her  black  cap  and  the  severe 
simplicity  of  the  rest  of  her  dress. 

"  Excuse  me,  monsieur,  but  may  I  ask  you  to  let 
me  walk  with  you  along  this  piece  of  the  road  .''  I 
should  never  have  the  courage  to  go  alone." 

"The  safest  way  for  you,  if  you  are  afraid  of  turning 
giddy,  is  to  make  a  detour." 

"Ah,  but  you  see  I  cannot  do  that.  This  is  the 
path  of  my  vow  ! " 

So  this  dangerous  path  is  sacred  to  her,  and  as  wc 
go  she  tells  me  why. 

Twenty  years  ago  she  was  making  her  way  towards 
La  Palude  with  her  future  husband.  Their  wedding 
was  fixed  for  the  next  week,  and  they  were  going, 
she  to  ask  the  saint  to  bless  their  marriage,  he  to 
thank  her  for  saving  his  life  during  the  previous  winter, 
when  for  a  whole  night  he  had  been  in  danger  in 
the  bay. 

They  had  just  been  talking  of  the  terrors  they  had 
both  endured  during  that  fearful  night. 

"Yes,"   exclaimed    the  young   man,   "I   was   very 


278  THE   LAND  OF   PARDONS 

nearly  wedding  the  sea  instead  of  you  .  .  .  She  is  look- 
ing pretty  enough  now,  the  jade,"  added  he,  bending  over 
the  water  that  lay  softly  undulating,  clear  and  deep,  at 
the  foot  of  the  rock. 

But  he  had  scarcely  done  speaking  when  he  suddenly 
threw  himself  backward.     He  had  turned  quite  livid, 

"  Oh,  how  unfortunate  !  "  he  cried  ;  "  a  dead  wave  !  " 

A  kind  of  bellowing  came  up  out  of  the  gulf,  and 
a  liquid  mass,  in  the  rough  form  of  a  beast,  sprang  .  .  . 

When  the  Islienne,  who  had  fainted,  reopened  her 
eyes,  a  group  of  pilgrims  knelt  around  her,  praying, 
thinking  that  she  was  dead. 

"  And  Kaour  ? "  she  asked,  as  soon  as  she  had 
regained  her  senses  ;  "  where  is  Kaour  ? " 

But  no  one  could  give  her  any  news  of  her  lover. 
The  sea  had  a  calm,  innocent  manner,  as  though  nothing 
had  happened.  They  searched  for  the  body,  but  no  one 
ever  found  it. 

Ever  afterwards  the  poor  girl  went  every  year  to  the 
Pardon  of  La  Palude,  and  always  by  the  path  they  had 
trodden  so  gaily  together  that  day.  But  when  she 
came  to  the  dreadful  place  her  strength  would  fail  her. 
She  was  afraid  of  hearing  the  voice  of  Kaour  calling  to 
her  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  she  was  determined  to  show 
him  that  she  remained  faithful  to  his  memory. 

"  I  am  his  widow,"  said  she,  "  for  our  banns  had  been 
published.  In  the  Island  it  is  sacrilege  to  marry  a 
second  time." 

Talking  of  these  sad  things,  we  came  down  towards 
the  Bay  of  Trefentec.  Before  reaching  the  first  dunes 
of  Saint  Anne  there  was  still  a  bare  stretch  of  country 
to  cross.     The  heat  was  exhausting,  and   I  was  very 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  279 

thirsty.  The  woman  would  have  liked  a  drink  too. 
Suddenly  she  saw  a  boat  lying  on  the  sand.  To  run 
to  it  and  climb  aboard  was  the  work  of  a  moment ;  and 
there  she  was,  standing  and  calling  to  me,  an  earthen 
pitcher  in  her  hands.  While  I  quenched  my  thirst,  she 
remarked,  in  a  joyous  tone  : — 

"  It  is  service  for  service,  isn't  it  ?  Now  we  shall  be 
quits."  And  as  I  complimented  her  on  her  sharpness, 
"  Oh,  I  only  had  to  think  of  the  proverb  that  says,  '  A 
sailor  never  goes  to  sea  without  water.' "... 

Never  did  I  taste  anything  more  delicious.  No 
doubt  when  the  pilgrims  belonging  to  that  boat  set 
sail  in  the  evening,  they  were  rather  surprised  to  find 
the  pitcher  half  empty  ;  but,  as  my  accomplice  said,  they 
would  by  that  time  have  had  so  much  to  drink  that 
they  would  never  notice. 

And  really,  when  we  arrived  at  La  Paludc,  the 
tents  were  overflowing  with  drinkers  ;  even  the  women 
sat  sipping  "  Breton  champagne,"  a  kind  of  gaseous 
lemonade,  saturated  with  alcohol.  The  hollow  among 
the  dunes  looked  like  an  immense  fair,  one  of  those  fairs 
of  the  Middle  Ages  where  all  costumes  and  speeches 
were  mingled.  The  smoke  of  the  bivouac  fires  curled 
slowly  up  into  the  still  air.  The  dust  blew  about  in 
great  copper-coloured  clouds.  It  seemed  as  though  the 
white  tents  were  floating  on  a  vast  human  ocean. 
Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  this  sea  of  sound  and  colour, 
noise  and  confusion,  where  the  jokes  of  mountebanks 
made  a  chorus  to  the  singing  of  hymns,  we  came  upon 
the  fountain,  lying  surrounded  by  the  coarse,  excited, 
popular  merry-making,  like  an  oasis  of  silence,  an  island 
of  peace.     It  has  a  parapet  to  protect  it,  and  a  granite 


280  THE   LAND   OF   PARDONS 

pavement  surrounds  it.  In  the  centre  rises  the  statue 
of  the  saint.  Some  old  women  of  the  neighbourhood 
were  standing  on  the  steps,  with  bowls  and  pitchers,  to 
assist  the  devotees  in  their  ablutions. 

A  woman  of  Penmarc'h  or  Loctudy,  a  Bigoudenn, 
had  just  crossed  the  steps,  with  a  faltering  gait.  She  had 
an  earthy  face  like  a  mummy,  framed  in  her  narrow  cap 
embroidered  with  pearls  and  shaped  like  a  mitre  ;  her 
heavy  skirts,  arranged  in  three  rows,  one  above  another, 
weighed  down  her  thin,  feeble  legs,  and  one  trembled 
lest  she  should  sink,  suddenly,  between  the  arms  of  the 
two  young  men,  her  sons,  who  led  her,  stiff  and  silent. 

The  old  assistants  pressed  around  her,  offering  their 
services  with  whisperings  of  compassion,  kindly  inquiring 
the  nature  of  her  complaint.  She,  however,  completely 
exhausted,  let  herself  drop  on  the  stone  bench  at  the 
foot  of  the  saint's  pedestal,  and  with  her  thin  fingers 
began  to  unfasten,  one  by  one,  the  different  portions  of 
her  clothing  ;  first  her  velvet  braided  bodice,  then  the 
brown  woollen  camisole,  and  lastly  an  unbleached 
chemise,  uncovering  her  breast,  where,  covered  with 
strips  of  lint,  appeared  the  horrible  wound  of  a  cancer. 

The  two  young  men  watched  her,  hat  in  hand,  as 
though  they  were  in  church,  and  I  overheard  one  of 
them,  the  elder,  explain  to  the  old  women — 

"  We  have  taken  her  to  all  the  best-known  places  in 
the  neighbourhood  of  our  parish,  to  Saint  Nonna  of 
Penmarc'h,  to  Saint  Tunve  of  Kerity,  to  Saint  Tremeur 
of  Plobannalec.  But  every  time  she  has  come  back  in 
greater  pain.  And  now  some  one  has  told  us  that  only 
Saint  Anne  can  cure  her,  so  we  have  come  to  her." 

Then  the  old  women  began  to  cry  out :  "Oh,  what  a 


THE   PARDON   OF  THE   SEA  281 

pity  you  did  not  think  of  it  sooner  !  .  .  .  Saint  Anne  is 
the  only  one,  you  see !  .  .  .  Saint  Anne  is  the  only  one 
who  can  help  you.  .  .  .  There  is  no  one  besides  Saint 
Anne,  any  one  will  tell  you  that.  .  .  .  If  you  had  been 
anything  but  a  seaweed-burner, you  would  have  known  it." 

All  the  while  they  were  scolding  the  sons  they  were 
busying  themselves  about  the  mother,  performing  all 
the  usual  rites  in  her  name.  One  bathed  her  face  with 
water  ;  another  poured  some  up  her  sleeves,  so  as  to  wet 
the  whole  length  of  her  arms ;  a  third  took  her  hand- 
kerchief out  of  her  pocket,  and  dipping  it  in  the  fountain, 
laid  it,  wet,  on  the  sore  place ;  while  others  fell  down  on 
their  knees  on  the  muddy  stones,  calling  upon  the 
patroness  of  La  Palude,  "  Grandmother  of  Sorrow," 
Mother  of  Mothers,  Fountain  of  Health,  Rose  of  the 
Dunes,  Hope  of  Breton  people. 

These  improvised  prayers  were  very  sweet  and 
soothing. 

The  sick  woman  made  herself  repeat  the  phrases, 
her  head  turned  back,  her  eyes  raised  toward  the 
figure  of  the  saint,  statuesque  in  her  trouble  and 
supplication. 

I  have  often  heard  people  remark  on  the  way  that 
everything  in  Brittany,  bits  of  landscapes,  groups  of  men 
and  women,  form  pictures.  Effects  come  about  quite 
spontaneously  by  some  kind  of  instinct,  and  the  artist 
has  only  to  copy,  almost  without  alteration. 

Looked  at  from  this  point  of  view,  the  procession  of 
La  Palude  is  a  marvel  ;  there  is  no  other  word  to  describe 
it.  It  is  impossible  to  conceive  anything  more  com- 
plete, a  vision  of  art  more  intense,  more  changeful  and 
harmonious. 


282  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

A  sky  like  that  of  some  old  master,  powdered  with  a 
golden  mist.  .  .  .  The  light  church,  with  its  lilac  tones, 
aerial,  quivering ;  all  the  bells  ringing  timultuously  over- 
head. .  .  .  Here  and  there  pale,  faded  greens,  the  grey 
of  the  tents,  the  pink-brown  of  the  cliffs,  and  in  front 
the  splendid  basin  of  the  bay,  its  great  calm  stretches 
of  blue,  the  carved  fretting  of  its  promontories,  the  supple, 
changing  festoon  of  its  breakers,  embroidered  with  foam 
and  sunshine.     There  is  a  scene  ! 

On  to  this  fair  background  comes  a  fairy  procession, 
a  long,  noble  train  of  serious  figures — serious,  gorgeous, 
ecclesiastical — escaped,  it  would  seem,  from  some  stained- 
glass  window.  It  makes  one  think  of  a  company  of  living 
idols,  overladen  with  heavy  ornaments  and  sparkling 
embroideries.  Nowhere  else  does  one  see  such  rich 
and  splendid  costumes,  save,  perhaps,  in  Croatia,  in 
Ukraina,  or  in  some  Eastern  land.  Every  family  care- 
fully preserves  its  costume  in  a  special  cupboard  that  is 
only  opened  once  a  year  for  the  "  Sunday  of  Saint 
Anne."  On  that  day  it  is  worn  by  the  eldest  daughter, 
or  by  the  daughter-in-law.  All  the  family  is  present  at 
her  toilet,  and  give  her  most  minute  instructions.  The 
grandmother,  the  depository  of  the  ancient  traditions, 
is  lavish  with  advice,  rearranges  the  drapery,  corrects 
the  deportment  of  the  novice,  teaches  her  to  walk 
as  she  should,  with  a  solemn  step,  an  almost  priestly 
manner. 

The  sight  of  these  women  in  their  magnificent  dresses, 
moving  majestically  along  through  this  glittering  scene, 
among  the  chant  of  litanies  and  the  mufiied  sound  of 
drums,  is  really  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  I  have 
ever  seen,  and  something  that  can  never  be  forgotten. 


THE   PARDON  OF  THE   SEA  283 

It  makes  one  think  of  some  huge  painting,  which,  when 
unrolled,  shows  in  all  the  pomp  of  mystic  barbarism  a 
band  of  priestesses  belonging  to  the  Old  Ocean. 

For  a  long  time  afterwards  one  is  haunted  by  thoughts 
of  past  ages.  But  then  follows  something  that  brings  us 
back  to  painful  and  eternal  reality. 

Old  or  young,  graceful  or  bent,  the  widows  of  the 
sea  come  out  from  the  porch.  The  eye  is  weary  with 
trying  to  count  them  ;  there  are  so  many.  They  have 
put  out  their  candles,  to  signify  that  the  lives  of  the  men 
they  loved  are  in  like  manner  extinguished.  For  the 
most  part  the  faces  are  stamped  with  placid  resignation. 
The  most  sorrowful  hide  their  tears  beneath  the  limp- 
hanging  folds  of  the  grey  hood  they  all  wear.  They 
pass  quietly,  with  joined  hands,  followed  immediately 
by  the  "  Saved." 

This  arrangement  is  not  so  ironical  as  it  seems.  How 
many  of  these  "Saved"  of  to-day  will  not  be  mourned 
among  the  **  Lost  "  at  the  next  Pardon  ?  By  a  feeling 
of  touching  delicacy  they  are  dressed  for  the  occasion 
in  the  clothes  they  wore  on  the  day  of  the  shipwreck,  at 
the  very  moment  when  the  saint  came  to  their  aid  and 
stilled  the  tempest  for  them.  They  are  in  the  clothes 
in  which  they  struggle  with  their  pitiless  work.  Trousers 
turned  up  over  woollen  drawers,  blue  cloth  jacket,  worn, 
ragged,  discoloured  by  spray,  spotted  with  drops  of  tar, 
the  saffron-coloured  net  thrown_across  the  shoulders.  In 
years  gone  by  they  went  to  such  a  length  of  realism  that 
they  used  to  dip  themselves  in  the  sea  after  they  had 
dressed,  and  take  part  in  the  procession  all  dripping 
with  sea-water. 

Amongst   them   appears  the  complete  model  of  a 


284?  THE   LAND   OF  PARDONS 

ship.  The  cabin-boy  marches  at  their  head.  From  his 
neck  a  half-decayed  bit  of  writing  hangs,  the  sailing 
orders,  the  only  thing  recovered  from  the  storm.  All 
these  men  are  singing  aloud.  But,  in  spite  of  their  light- 
heartedness,  increased  during  the  morning  by  liberal 
libations,  they  look  serious,  almost  sad. 

"  How  can  we  help  it  ? "  said  one  of  them  to  me. 
"  The  Blessed  Saint  Anne  does  her  very  best  for  us, 
and  we  thank  her  with  all  our  hearts.  But  while  we 
are  shouting  our  praises  to  her  we  can  hear  the  other 
laughing,  down  there,  all  the  time.  .  .  .  And  you 
know  when  she  has  let  you  go  once,  twice,  take  care 
of  the  third  time !  It  is  not  a  safe  thing  to  trick  the 
sea." 

.  .  .  Evening  is  falling.  The  crosses  and  banners 
are  passing  back  into  the  church,  and  everything  begins 
to  break  up  immediately.  The  carts  are  set  up  and 
begin  to  move,  the  horses,  who  are  well  rested,  starting 
at  a  quick  trot.  Torrents  of  pilgrims  flow  out  in 
every  direction.  For  a  long  distance  the  eye  can 
follow  these  thin,  winding,  many  -  coloured  lines, 
making  their  way  across  the  fields,  and  scattering 
little  by  little,  to  disappear  at  last  in  the  shadowy 
distance. 

The  sails  that  served  to  cover  the  tents  slip  to  the 
ground.     Marie-Ange,  very  busy,  cries  to  me — 

"  We  are  just  going  to  take  up  the  anchor  and  set 
sail." 

Over  the  empty  plain  a  mantle  of  solitude  falls  with 
the  night.  The  travelling-vans  of  the  mountebanks  and 
hawkers  again  show  their  silhouettes,  like  wandering 
Noah's  Arks  ;  to-morrow  they  too  will  have  fled.     And 


THE  PARDON  OF  THE  SEA  285 

La  Palude,  under  the  first  breath  of  autumn,  begins  to 
look  like  the  mournful  country  I  remember  it — solitary, 
save  for  a  disused  house  of  prayer  and  a  farm  in  ruins, 
standing  face  to  face  with  the  hostile  sea,  as  wild,  as 
untamed  as  ever. 


INDEX 


Abgrall,  Chanoine,  xxviii 
Ahes,  60 

Ahes,  symbol  of  the  sea,  274 
Albert  Legrand,  137 
Anne-de-la-Palude,  Saint,  247 

church  of,  253 

house  of,  255 

legend  of,  255 

statue  of,  254 
Anne  of  Brittany,  at  Saint  Jean-du- 

Doigt,  140 
Anne  of  Brittany,  at  Locronan,  227 
Are,  mountains  of,  xxiv 
Aulne,  river,  xxii 


B 


Banner  of  Saint  John,  180 
Banners  at  Pardon  of  Saint  Yves,  31 

at  Locronan,  228 
Baptiste,  34 
Beggars,  position  of  in  Brittany,  33 

at  La  Palude,  263 

at  Pardon  of  Saint  Yves,  28,  45 

at  Rumengol,  86 

at  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt,  172 
Bonfire  at  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt,  148 


Chapel  of  the  Penity,  208 
of   Saint  Herve   on   Menez-Bre, 

107 
of  Yves  le  Veridique,  10 


Chateaulin,  78 
Church  of  Locronan,  240 
of  Minihy,  43  56 
of  Ploumilliau,  160 
of  Rumengol,  72,  iii 
of  Saint  Anne-de-la-Palude,  253, 

264 
of  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt,  144,  154, 

196 
of  Treguier,  29 
Corentin,  Saint,  216 
Costumes  at  Rumengol,  76,  1 16,  123 
at  Saint  Anne-de-la-Palude,  280, 
282 


D 


Dates  of  the  Pardons,  33,  123,  157, 

230,  260 
Dourdu,  gorge  of  the,  168 
Druid  sanctuary  at  Rumengol,  70 


Efllam,  Saint,  239 

Elud,  oratorj'  of  Saint,  22 


Finger  of  Saint  John,  196 

legend  of  tlie,  145 
Fire,  pardon  of,  131 
Fountain  of  Rumengol,  70,  75,  90, 
118 


INDEX 


Fountain  of  Saint  Anne-de-la-Pa- 
lude,  279 
of  Saint  Jean-du-Doigt,  150,  169, 

175.  19s 


Gelvest  ar  Pihan,  xxiv 
Gily  of  Plouaret,  Saint,  xxi 
Goffic,  Le,  xvi 
Gonery,  Saint,  4 
Gralon,  death  of,  69 

flight  of,  67 

Ronan  brought  before,  214 

tomb  of,  70 
Guenn,  Yann  ar,  loi 
Gwennole,  SS 


H 


Heol,  the  sun-god,  134 
Herve,  Saint,  107 


Iguinou,  Saint,  xxii 

Ireland,  home  of  the  Saints,  200 


Jean-du-Doigt,  banner  of,  180 

bonfire  of,  184 

fountains  of,  175 

inn  at,  178 

legend  of,  145 

Queen  Anne  at,  140 

sacred  water  of,  196 

sea  pilgrimages  to,  157 
John  v.,  Duke  of  Brittany,  152 


K 

Kaour,  story  of,  277 
Keb^n,  210 

cross  of,  233 

death  of,  219 


Ker-Is,  58 

Kerborz,  manor  of,  26 
Kergoz,  John  of,  26 
Kervarzin,  manor  of,  44 


Lament  of  Matelina  Troadek,  162 

Plac'hic  Eussa,  124 
Landevennec,  abbey  of,  63 
La  Palude,  Saint  Anne-de-,  249 
beggars  at,  263 
booth  at,  265 
fountain  of,  279 
legend  of,  255 
pilgrim  path  to,  274 
procession  of,  281 
statue  of  Saint  Anne  at,  254 
visit  to,  in  winter,  249 
Legend  of  Finger  of  Saint  John,  145 
of  Irish  Saints,  200 
of  Keben,  210 
of  Saint    Yves   (Miracle   of  the 

Soup),  50 
of  Saint  Ronan,  198 
of  Saint  Anne-de-la-Palude,  255 
of  singers  of  Rumengol,  108 
of  Syren,  65 
ofTekla,  146 

of  Tower  of  Saint  Michel,  40 
of  Wolf  of  Saint  Ronan,  204 
Legrand,  Albert,  137 
Le  Scour,  109 
Locquenole,  165 
Locronan,  221 
church  of,  237 
inn  at,  241 
pardon  of,  225 
procession  at,  244 
Queen  Anne  at,  227 
temporary  chapels  at,  232 


M 

Mabik  Remond,  18 
Mare  of  Saint  Ronan,  202,  234 
Maturin,  Saint,  164 
Maudez,  Saint,  4 
Meriadek,  Saint,  135 


INDEX 


289 


Meiiadek,  Tiaoun,  134 
Michel,  tower  of  Saint,  40 
Minihy,  33 
Minouz,  Yann  ar,  94 
Monik,  6 


N 

Naic,  XXV 

Nonnic  Plougaznou,  160 


O 


Ouessantines,  115 


Pardon,   general   characteristics   of 
a,  xvi 

Le  Goffic's  description  of  a,  xvi 

Luzel's  poem  on  a,  xviii 
Pardon  of  Fire,  131 

of  Saint  Iguinou,  xxii 

of  the  Mountain,  198 

of  the  Sea,  249 

of  Saint  Servais,  xxiv 

of  the  Singers,  58 

of  Saint  Yves,  I 
Parkik,  168 

Penity,  Chapel  of  the,  238 
Penn-tiern,  the,  207 
Pla9-ar-C'horn,  248 
Plac'hic  Eussa,  lament  of,  124 
Plouaret,  Saint  Gily  of,  xxi 
Plougaznou,  139 
Porz  Bihan,  6 
Primel,  Saint,  60,  132 


Quimerc'h  (station  for  Rumengol), 

79 

Queen  Anne  of  Brittany  at  Rumen- 
gol, 227 

Queen   Anne    of   Brittany  at    St, 
Jean-du-Doigt,  140 
U 


R 


Kenan's  legend  of   Saint  Ronan, 

198 
Riwallon  the  juggler,  48 
Ronan  and  Corentin,  216 
Ronan  before  Gralon,  214 
Ronan's  death,  217 
Ronan's  procession,  244 
Ronan,  Saint,  198 
Ronan's  stone  mare,  202,  234 
Ronan's  tomb,  219,  238 
Ronan's  wolf,  204 
Rumengol,  beggars  at,  86 

costumes  at,  123 

Druid  sanctuary  at,  70 

founding  of  church  at,  72 

inn  at,  92 

legend  of  singers  at,  108 

Ouessantines  at,  115 

pilgrims  to,  76 

vigil  of.  III 


Saint  Anne-de-la-Palude,  249 

fountain  of,  279 

legend  of,  255 

statue  of,  254 
Saint  Efflam,  239 
Saint  Elud,  oratory  of,  22 
Saint  Gily  of  Plouaret,  xxi 
Saint  Gonery,  4 
Saint  Iguinou,  xxii 
Saint  Jean-du-Doigt,  131,  175 

banner  of,  180 

bonfire  of,  184 

inn  at,  178 

legend  of,  145 

procession  of,  1 75,  1 89 

Queen  Anne  at,  140 

water  of,  196 
Saint  Maudez,  4 
Saint  Meriadek,  135 
Saint  Michel,  tower  of,  40 
Saint  Primel,  60,  1 32 
Saint  Ronan,  198 
Saint  Servais,  xxiv 
Saint  Tremcur,  21 
Saint  Tujen,  4 


290 


INDEX 


Saint  Yves,  i 

altar  tomb  of,  56 

childhood  of,  38 

procession  of,  31 

tomb  of,  25 

vigil  of,  29 

vifill  of,  56 
Saint  Yves  le  Veridique,  6 

chapel  of,  10 

judgment  of,  14,  16 
Saints,  home  of,  200 

pilgrimage  of  seven,  140 

replacement  of,  135 
Sanctuary  at   Rumengol  in   Druid 

times,  70 
Scour,  Le,  109 

Sermon  on  the  Pla9-ar-C'horn,  248 
Seven  Saints,  the,  140 
Singers,  Pardon  of,  58 
Singers  of  Rumengol,  108 
Stone  mare  of  Ronan,  202,  234 
Syren  of  the  Celts,  65 


Tantad,  the,  184 

Tekla,  146 

Tomb  of  Gralon,  70 

of  Saint  Ronan,  219,  238 

of  Saint  Yves,  25 


Traoun  Meriadek,  132 
Tredarzec,  7,  8 
Treguier,  9,  19,  27 
Tremeur,  Saint,  21 
Tromenie,    meaning 

225 
Tujen,  Saint,  4 
Tymeur,  269 


of  the   word, 


V 

Virgin  of  Rumengol,  84 


Yann-ar-Minouz,  94 
Yann-ar-Guenn,  loi 
Yves  le  Veridique,  Saint,  6 

chapel  of,  10 

judgments  of,  14,  16 
Yves,  Saint,  i 

altar  tomb  of,  56 

childhood  of,  38 

procession  of,  31 

tomb  of,  25,  153 

vigil  of,  29 

will  of,  56 


PRINTED  BY 

WILLIAM   CLOWES  AND  SONS,   LIMITED, 

LONDON   AND  BECCLBS. 


UC  SOUTHER'^  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA       001347  129        7 


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3  1210  00672  3736' 


